


Not Broken, Just Bent

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bathroom Sex, Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Evil Mary, F/M, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, HLV fix-it, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Industrial strength angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentioning of Main Character Death, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Psychological Torture, Romance, Rough Sex, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Unrequited Love, but still eventual happy ending, no high speed Hollywood healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 87,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1527377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face."</p><p>Fix-it for S3, starting at the end of TSoT. Written from Sherlock's POV. </p><p>If you like to see Mary as one of the good guys, you might want to stop reading right here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Davina for pointing out my mistakes (prepositions are evil little creatures when you are not a native speaker) and to GoSherlocked for support, encouragement and thudding. You two are the best!
> 
> All quotes from the episodes are taken from here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/ Thank you for your wonderful work!
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://schmiezi.tumblr.com/

Part 1

I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Grim satisfaction, maybe, when they finally know who murdered their loved one. Relief, when something precious could be returned. Gratefulness, when holding an abducted family member safe in their arms. But happiness? No.

On one very special occasion I even brought adventurous danger and satisfaction to a life, but that does not count for I went and shattered all the good things there might have been by jumping off a roof.

I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Least of all to mine.

* * * 

We are standing in the living room. He is there for a short visit, a few stolen minutes, before he and Mary will leave for their honeymoon. (She thinks he just wants to say goodbye for two weeks.) Still feels wrong to have him here as a guest. He belongs here. (Used to belong here. Not any longer. Accept it.) His face determined. He came here with a (seemingly) simple question, not willing to leave without an answer.

“Why did you leave early?”

I remember yesterday night more clearly than I want to. How the fresh air has been a relief after the overheated atmosphere at the dance floor. How I went away fast, so that no one would have a chance to follow me and hold me back. (Still feel the deep disappointment when I realized that no one was trying to.) (Wonder how long it took him to discover that I was gone?) (Wonder if I would like the answer? Probably not.)

How my thoughts were swirling around the same topic again and again. The whole day, the whole last months I had told myself (successfully) that a wedding wouldn't change a thing.

Not the way things were now. Jumping off a roof and returning from the dead in the most clumsy way possible when hearts were already given to other people, that changes things. Going away from London for two years to finally, finally realize (have been really slow on this one) that you were in love with your only true friend, that changes things. Weddings, no. Not with Mary so eager to accept me (why?), not with John generous enough to finally forgive. 

Never expected him to love me (me!) in return anyway. Would have been satisfied with living next to him, having unlimited access to looking at him (secretly), smelling him, making him laugh, making him look at me the way only he does. Now, I need to be satisfied with limited access to all of that. Still better than nothing (I presume).

Weddings don't change too much.

Babies do.

How do I tell him that I left because I could not stand the simple fact that everything will change soon (without mentioning that I love him)? Thought about it all night, knowing he would demand an answer to that question. Been so lost at finding a suitable line that I even did the unspeakable. Didn't help. Made him swear to never mention the fact that I showed up at his house in the wee hours of the morning, looking for brotherly consolation (and actually finding it. Embarrassing!).

Now, at noon, I still don't have a good excuse. John is wearing his soldier face. I won't be able to use one of my usual strategies to avoid answering. Only way out now is to play down the importance of it. Put on my best acting face. Make my voice sound slightly flippant.

“Thought it best to retreat before someone could force me to dance.” Put as much disdain into the last word as possible.

Does he believe me? Of course not. Looks at me like only he can, seeing through my demeanour, right into my soul (given that I owe one). He smiles (honestly) and shakes his head. “I don't buy that, Sherlock.” he simply says, as if deciphering me would be an easy thing to do. When I fail to respond immediately, he continues with a smile: “We did dance together, remember? Call me naïve, but I am very sure that you love dancing a lot.”

That is when I make the inexcusable mistake.

For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face.

Our eyes lock, and something in his expression falls. (No!) He takes one step backwards (stupid Sherlock, stupid stupid stupid) and looks at me (surprised? shocked? angrily!). My breath catches, I try to wipe the horror from my face and fail. 

“John,” I start, but he won't hear it. Clenches his hand, shakes his head. Smiles that dangerous smile you only get to see when he is really, really angry. (Why angry?)

“You must be kidding me.” he says, voice strained. 

I am at a loss of words, unable to avert my eyes. Not comprehending the amount of anger behind his words. I am not expecting anything from him, am not forcing him to return my feelings. So why is he angry?

“Today?” he goes on, louder and louder with every word. “Today of all days you do that? One day after my wedding? Sherlock! Now you come out with that, when it is one day too late to change things?” He is fidgeting (he does not normally do that), his hand opening and closing at record speed. 

I still don't comprehend what is going on. Why is he talking about changing things? I never expected him to. Why is he …

“Did it never occur to you that one day before the wedding would have been a slightly better moment? Or a week before? A month? Any time before?”

And then I finally understand. (How could I have understood earlier? How could I have even guessed that his stupidly big heart is weird enough to love me back?) I must still be staring at him. Want to say something but can't find my voice. Feel my mouth open and close. (Goldfish.) Body is betraying me. (Tears in my eyes? Really? Please!)

I watch him standing there, watching me in return. See his body sagging, his face shifting from anger to sadness. “You had no idea.” he (correctly) deduces then. Wish I could look away. He shakes his head, (obviously) torn between hitting me and hugging me. “With your enormous brain and brilliant skills and all, you had no idea that love you.” 

(He loves me. Loves. Me.) (Not loved. Loves.) (Should feel good, but only hurts.) I shake my head, still left without voice. He (finally) steps closer again. Left hand reaching out for my face. Stopping in mid-air, dropping down. 

The fact that his eyes are a bit wet makes the single tear that is running down my face (slightly) less embarrassing. 

He nods, more to himself than to me. His voice is soft when he says, “It is too late, Sherlock. I am married. There is a baby on its way. It … it would be WRONG.”

I can hear him using capital letters. Of course it would be WRONG, and if there is one thing John Watson is incapable of doing, then it is something WRONG. (Would I love him if he would be willing to do something WRONG?) (Is there be anything to stop me from loving him?) (I hope so.) (No, I don't.)

His hand finally makes it to my face. The only contact we make. “I'm sorry.” he says. Then he is gone. Gone to spend his honeymoon with his pregnant wife. 

I spend an incalculable amount of days on the sofa, trying to resist the urge to pick up the leather box hidden underneath my bed and use what is inside.

Only that I can no longer remember why I resist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't help but feel smug. Mary Watson does not share her loved one. That is why John is in danger. I figured it out. “It's about sentiment,” I tell my inner Mycroft proudly. “I detected it anyway.” (Making sure I don't voice that thought this time.)
> 
> My inner Mycroft looks at me with pity. “So, now you know what will hurt both of you soon. Will that make it feel any better?” I (angrily) make him disappear.

„No, Mrs Watson. You won't.“ That sentence, combined with the attempt to step forward, could be considered my second worst mistake during the entire affair. Though it is a bit hard to tell, given the huge amount of mistakes I happen to have made lately.

After escaping my inner Moriarty, I remember opening my eyes on the operation table, and after that, blissful darkness. No mind palace, just sleep. When I wake up again, I feel that one of my hands is significantly warmer than the other. Opening my eyes does not deliver information, everything is blurry.

“Sherlock?”

John. Been with me when the paramedics arrived, my memory supplies. Still with me inside the ambulance. Was concerned. Pretended not to be scared. Surely waited for the operation to be over. 

His voice is warm (unlike what has become normal between us after THE INCIDENT), soothing. Not (overly) worried. So I am safe. His figure comes into focus. His face open, warm, but tired. (Concerned about me.) (Again.) (Sorry.) The (very) early morning sunshine coming from the window illuminates his hair. (Love when that happens. But when has be become that grey?) Cannot see his hands, but judging from the way he is sitting on a chair next to my bed, one of his hands is holding mine. (Obviously, the reason for it being warmer than the other.)

Is he doing it on purpose? Better not move my own hand. If he's doing it subconsciously, he might remove it. (Not desirable.) (A stolen moment. Intend to keep it as long as possible.) I hold my hand absolutely still. But my mind starts working again. I remember. John Watson is in danger.

“Mary” I say, my voice raw and weak. Two syllables nearly too much for my weak state. Prepare to explain, no matter how exhausting. No matter how painful for him.

To my surprise, he just gives me a sad smile, “I know.”

My brain is too slow. I stare at him for what feels like minutes. Try to focus on his response (but stare into his eyes a bit too long. Wish I could do that more often. Wish I had not ruined everything.) (Too late for that.) (Focus!)

How does he know? Struggle to ask him, get caught in a coughing fit instead. A glass of water with a straw is delivered instantly. (Always caring.) “You have already told me,” he explains with a hint of an (honest) smile on his lips. I frown, and he continues, “Four times,actually. We keep having the same dialogue over and over whenever you wake up.”

Try to process that. Can't remember waking up here. Can't remember talking to him. Feel (completely) lost. The pressure on my hand increases instantly. “It's all right” he says gently, “it's a common after-effect of the narcotics used.”

I look at him and try to smile as well, “Must be boring.” He laughs a little. (Been a while since I managed to make him laugh.) (Funny how that makes me feel warm inside.) 

“It has just become more interesting again,” he quips, “you finally said something new.” Our eyes meet (also been a while) and he sobers. “So,” he goes on, “my wife tried to kill you, yes?”

Memories of Mary surface in my mind. Mary in front of the kebab shop, “I'll talk him round.”  
Mary at the wedding, “Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.  
Mary with the gun, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Truly am.”

“She fooled me,” I marvel. And not for a moment. For months. John does not answer. She fooled him as well. Does that change the way he feels about her? About me? Will it still be WRONG? I could ask, but that could lead to an answer I don't want to hear.

This is not about THE INCIDENT anyway. If it were, I could point out to John that I have already repented. 

I spent their honeymoon by picturing John and Mary vividly. Withdrew from the real world into my mind palace. I spent hours standing next to them on the beach, feeling the gentle breeze on my skin, watching John kissing her (the way he will never kiss me). Soft at first, then hungry, longingly. His hands (that will never touch me that way) on her breasts, on her arse, on her belly (with the child inside, a mere blueberry sized collection of cells at this stage of pregnancy). I saw her moaning with pleasure, her body pressing against his touch. I (closely) observed him, his face filled with pride and satisfaction at the sounds he makes his wife make.

I stood with them inside their suite, watched them having sex. Mary on top (of course), both slick with sweat. I listened to John's heavy breathing, to the fast delivered sequence of “oh yes” and “harder” and “more” he will never say to me. I looked closely as his body became rigid with pleasure, watched his eyes flutter during orgasm, indulging the knowledge that I will never be able to make him look that way. 

(Would I have been able to make him look that way if I had got the change? Probably not.)

When their love making no longer hurt me enough, I started imagining them sitting at the beach during sunset, holding each other. That is all. No orgasms, no explicit talking. Just the two (three) of them, belonging together. That never failed to send me spiralling down into desperation.

Not sure how much of that train of thought has shown on my face, but John is looking at me with a (painful) mixture of sympathy and concern. His hand still on mine. I get bolder and squeeze it. Just a tiny bit. He does not withdraw.

“You kept saying that I was in danger,” he mentions then. So my inner Moriarty has told me, yes. Did not have time to think it through. (No time for thinking when John is in danger.) (Bit stupid, that notion.) I just nod, and he looks out of the window, thoughtfully.

In my mind, I conjure Mary next to my bedside. Turn her around, look for all the clues I have overlooked so far. The control she has over her facial expressions. (Used so subtly that I missed it. Not just a liar. An experienced one. A professional one.) The gap in her past, starting five years ago. (And the small gaps in her recent life. More than I wanted to see before. Several trips with an unclear destination. A job that does not pay for the clothing she has in her wardrobe.) Brilliant fine motor skills. Come in handy as a nurse. (And as an assassin.) The way she uses to make sure John and I spent time together. (Giving her free time as well. To do what? Remember her face, her bearing afterwards. Too controlled, hiding something.) The love in her eyes when looking at John. 

She really loves him. Possessively. That is why she is so eager on being friends with me. That is why she was so eager to convince him to forgive me. She needs me to be their permitted friend so he won't have to chose between her and me. She needs me to be their friend so I can't be his love.

Does she know how much he loves me as well?

John's head spins around. He stares at me. Oh. Said that aloud. (Not wise.) (His hand still on mine, though.) He flushes. 

Can't help but feel smug. Mary Watson does not share her loved one. That is why John is in danger. I figured it out. “It's about sentiment,” I tell my inner Mycroft proudly. “I detected it anyway.” (Making sure I don't voice that thought this time.) 

My inner Mycroft looks at me with pity. “So, now you know what will hurt both of you soon. Will that make it feel any better?” I (angrily) make him disappear.

I look at John again. “Just live with her happily for the rest of your life and you will be safe.” I tell him. “Everything is all right as long as you love her more than me.”

John avoids my glance for a while. Then he sighs, squeezes my hand firmly. “I guess I'm in danger then,” he says. My heart does not know if it should open up with joy or clench with fear. I think it does both at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I wake up the next time, John is flipping through a manila folder. There is an expression on his face I have never seen before. At first, I thought it was anger. Then I realize it is hatred. Never knew John would be capable of hate so concentrated. His jaws must hurt terribly by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a look at the tags. There are new ones because of this chapter.

For a long time we neither talk nor move. John keeps holding my hand, his thumb softly stroking the back of my hand. I drift off into sleep occasionally, the warmth of John's touch anchoring me.

One of the times I wake up again, John is looking at me thoughtfully. "What kind of danger are we talking about?" he asks, instantly continuing, "I mean, will she take me to the cleaner during the divorce? Or will she stab me in the back with our meat knife?"

(Divorce sounds wonderful to my ears. But can't linger over it.)

Because no, she wouldn't stab him in the back. I don't know anything about her past, but her demeanour at Magnusson's office made it clear that she was trained in what she was doing. No trained assassin would risk facing John Watson in close combat. (Some did so in the past. Not all of them got the opportunity to regret it.)

I know I shouldn't, but I can't help imagining what she would do instead. I am standing in the Watson's kitchen. (My favourite room in their home.) I can see John eating. Mary serves him one of those coffee things she always produces with this tedious machine. Something with milk and steam and flavour. Strong enough to cover the taste of cyanide.

(Would be a brilliant choice. Kills almost instantly, but is easily traceable. Mary knows that I once called it the most boring poison of all. Knows that I normally refuse to investigate cyanide poisoning because it's too clichéd. Knows that her choice will break everything inside me that will be left when John is dead.)

John drinks it. He knows something is wrong after the first gulp, but it's too late. I can see that he feels dizzy. He stands up but sways, has to reach for the edge of the table. He breathes, fast and desperate, but getting air inside his lungs is not the problem. His body is already reacting, his cells unable to use the oxygen any longer. His legs give in, he falls to the ground, his lips blue. His hands cling to the collar of his shirt, irrationally trying to widen it to get air. He panics, his legs kicking frantically at nothing. Then his movements slow down, until a seizure shakes his body. I can tell from his eyes that he is dead before his body stills.

But would she really use poison? Too much of a cliché, maybe.

The scene is rewinding fast, then starts again. This time, John gets up from the table unharmed. He kisses Mary on her cheek. "I need to go, Sherlock has a new case." (Bad liar, John.) She smiles and wishes him fun. When he turns to leave, she grabs the gun from her apron and shoots him in the back.

I watch him drop to his knees silently, then, after a moment of swaying, falling forward, hitting the ground. He is still alive, but just barely, blinking, utter astonishment on his face. His breath becomes ragged, blood spraying out of his mouth, then his eyes lose their light, his dying breath painful. It is over within 95 seconds.

But no, John is a soldier. He would not just die without fighting. 

The scene rewinds again, up to the moment when the gun is fired. This time he drops to his knees with a soft cry, more surprised than in pain. He falls forward, but breaks the fall with his hands. He knows he is shot, and he knows he needs help. He tries to get up again. I watch Mary coming closer, a predator waiting for her prey to die. She kicks his arms away, and he falls to the ground once more. “Mary,“ he starts, reaching out for her. She just smiles and watches him. He knows he needs help, and starts trying to get his mobile out of his trouser pocket. But his hand does not work properly any longer. He fumbles, helplessly, and she ...

There is a sharp pain on my cheek, and the Watsons' kitchen disintegrates around me. I blink at John, who stares at me angrily. “You slapped me,” I can't help but blur out. (Stating the obvious? How deep have you sunk?)

“Don't.” He nearly shouts. “Don't do that. Stop picturing me dying instantly!”

We stare at each other for a moment. He slapped me. He knew what I was doing to myself inside my head and solved it in his very own fashion. Is it any wonder that I love this man?

“To be fair, I tried to gently shake you out of it first,” he feels the need to explain, but my mind is already moving ahead. John mentioned divorce. Does not want to continue that relationship. Wants to leave a professional killer with trust issues and a jealous streak. Who has not hesitated to risk the death of his best friend (me). My subconsciousness was right (of course). John is in danger.

“I don't know what Mary will be capable of doing, I never researched her past.” Have to admit that. Seemed a bit good back then when I decided to. Like something John would want. Would have done everything to be forgiven after my return. Even something stupid like not investigating her. I point at his left trouser pocket, “Call Mycroft.”

John takes out his mobile (doesn't hesitate a second when I ask him to do something. Does not even ask why. Never did.) and searches his contacts for my brother's number.

“I asked him insistently not to research her as well,” I explain. “Tell him to send us everything he has found out about her since then.”

* * *

Of course I am right. When I wake up the next time, John is flipping through a manila folder. There is an expression on his face I have never seen before. At first, I thought it was anger. Then I realize it is hatred. Never knew John would be capable of hate so concentrated. His jaws must hurt terribly by now.

When he looks up at me, his face turns softer instantly, but there is something dangerous still lurking just one blink of an eye away. “Her being a professional assassin would be bad enough,” he states calmly (never is he more frightened than when he appears to be calm). “She has done things, Sherlock ...” He stops mid-sentence, his breath betraying his state of mind. 

I try to mirror his faked ease, but my heart and my mind are racing. “How much in danger are you then?” I ask. He knows me too well, knows I am not calm, but plays along. The only way we can both go through with this.

“Mycroft thinks that he found out about fifty percent of her past. The rest is hidden so well even he couldn't get to it.” Not good. In my mind, I correct my assessment of her. Not just a paid assassin. Someone much higher up on the criminal ladder. Someone with enough resources to hide something from my brother. Moriarty had not been able to do that. 

(An unusual feeling rises inside of me. One I experience so seldom that I cannot figure it out instantly.)

“Want to know the worst things she did?” John goes on, grim determination on his face. I nod, and he tells me about this job she did in Argentina. Abducted the nine-year-old daughter of a minister. Blackmailed him into transferring a huge amount of money to a bank account on the Cayman Islands. Then arranged the handing over of the girl. Set her free and then shot her in the head just seconds before she reached her father's arms. 

(The feeling intensifies. What is it?)

Killed at least two former lovers.

(Fear.)

Been at a similar point of her life five years ago. Settled down with a nice, ordinary man. Got pregnant. Relationship didn't work out, he left her when she was into her sixth month. Two days later she had an accident at home, lost the child. Her description of the accident did not match all her injuries, but doctors blamed it on the shock of losing her unborn child. 

(Fear for John's life. And for the life of his unborn child.)

After that, John stops talking for a long while. I steal the folder from him and study it further, while I watch him out of the corner of my eyes. She has managed to become a CIA agent, turned herself into an even more efficient killer by undergoing the CIA training. Four agents got killed during her time with the agency, but no one saw the connection. 

There are more atrocities listed up, but studying John's expression becomes more important that Mary's past. I deduce that he wants to say something important, but can't bring himself to open his mouth. Usually I need a Tube carriage and a bomb to make him talk about it. (But he said he loved me, didn't he?) (Shouldn't that help me make him talk? If only I knew how.)

I don't know what to do, so I wait. Try to ignore the increasing fear for his life. Finally, he clears his throat and says, very quietly, “I love this child, Sherlock.” His eyes shine with a sadness that (for a reason I cannot understand) makes my chest hurt. “I mean, it is only as big as a walnut now, but … it is my child. I can't stand the thought of being with her any longer, but … “

He never manages to finish that sentence, but he does not have to, anyway. He looks at me, the painful expression burning itself into my brain. (Will be un-deletable, even if I would try.) “I made a vow,” I remind him (don't think my own voice has ever sounded that soft before). “Even if Mary is excluded now, the vow does still apply to you and your child. I will think of a way out, I promise.”

(Will simply not think about how it will go on now between us. If we can be more than friends now. How a child would fit in.)

He looks at me for another while, then, without a further comment, he leans forward and takes me in his arms. Carefully, without hurting my already wounded chest. It is an awkward embrace. John has to keep up the tension in his spine in order not to lean against my wound, I on the other hand cannot lean forward without hurting myself. 

It is an awkward embrace, but with his left hand in my hair and his right pressing against my back, and with my cheek gently leaning against his, it is perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, Sherlock,” she says, “look at you. Dying again to safe John. Doesn't it get boring?”

The short-term solution is easy: Mary needs to believe that John is oblivious to her shooting me and that he still loves her. There is one problem. John has many talents that I could praise for hours, but telling lies is not amongst them. So, when I wake up from my postoperative slumber once more and hear Mary’s singsong threat, I am relieved beyond words.

But obviously, we are in need of a long-term solution to be truthful. I also have many talents that I could praise for hours (which I do occasionally) (well quite often, to be true), but dealing with romance is not amongst them. So I decide to use the only scheme I am familiar with. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption.

Love has already been promised between the married couple (more than enough for my taste), and I must admit that I am selfish enough to look forward to causing Mary the pain of loss.

John objects to the plan. Not to the basic idea (fooling Mary into revealing at least part of the truth to John, who will be completely surprised and outraged and will leave her for a while until generously forgiving her), but to my time scale. Thinks I should be completely healed before leaving the hospital in order to carry out our grand stage performance. But every day he spends with Mary is another day during which he could give away himself. The thought alone frightens me more than I care to admit.

So, one day (much sooner than he would have preferred) I sneak out of hospital (note to self: tell Mycroft that in the future I'd prefer hospital rooms on the ground floor). John runs around looking for me, asking so many people where I could be. (As if he wouldn't know best. But people are stupid, even the nice ones, and they all believe that John has no idea where I am. They all believe we are not into this together.)

When he arrives at Leinster Gardens, we prepare the stage. John sits down in the wheelchair Billy has stolen for me, and I ruffle his hair (with great enthusiasm. Many times. Until he tells me to stop and proceed with the rest of the preparations. And that I'd be free to ruffle his hair as long as I want in the near future ... Looking forward to that.)

The confrontation with Mary goes better than I expected. I know (theoretically) that John no longer loves her. But seeing the full display of her usually well-hidden viciousness (she knows of course how much bending down to pick up that coin hurts me) only helps John to show his anger.

He is glorious that night. We both are. I place the “surgery shot” lie in Mary's head. John puts all the hatred he felt when reading her file into his performance and pretends not to be scared to death by how sick I really am. At Baker Street we are so convincing that Mary hands us a flash drive, presumably filled with information on her. And all the time I manage to keep the distance from John as if scared off by his emotions. 

Only in the very end, when I realize that I have probably driven my transport too far, when I feel my heart tumbling into ventricular fibrillation, I instinctively stumble towards him, his hold on me the last thing I remember when darkness surrounds me.

* * *

When I wake up, I am not lying in hospital, but sitting on the bed of John's room. Have unintentionally entered my mind palace. That only happens when I am close to death, the last time mere days ago. 

John's room became part of the mind palace when I left London. I needed a place to retreat, somewhere safe. Funny choice, for I never really spent much time there in real life. But it is filled with things that remind me of John, his laptop, that ridiculous green jacket, his mug. It was in this room (somewhere in a shabby hotel in Slovenia) that I realized I love him.

Mary is sitting right next to me. She looks like the nice woman I got to know during my first weeks back in London. Charming, a slightly childish gleam in her eyes, yet intelligent and open-hearted. Wears jeans and a grey t-shirt that says “I'm with stupid.” There is an arrow beneath the lettering, and it is pointing at me. When I move it follows me. Looks like my mind is not in the mood for subtleties today.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she says, “look at you. Dying again to safe John. Doesn't it get boring?”

I want to ignore her. Want to turn away and leave her alone. Want to smash her head against the wall until her face is nothing but a bloodied mass. Would be perfect to do it in here. No child to endanger. She smiles, “Not that different, are we?”

There is no running away from the creatures my mind makes up in here, I know that. So I stand still and watch her silently, not knowing where this is leading to. (Ignore the rising fear.) She gets up from the bed and comes to me. Stops right in front of me. (Way too close.) The friendly smile on her face does not quaver when she lightly caresses my cheek. (Repugnant. Yet I stay where I am.)

“This could have been the four of us,” she says and tiptoes to ruffle my hair. “Would have let you babysit the little one when going out with John. Would have let the two of you working on as many cases as you would have wanted.” She presses an (abhorrent) kiss on my lips. Her voice is playful and soft, “But now you have ruined everything. As always.”

The setting around us changes. I am sitting in a chair next to a fireplace, a glass of whisky in my hand. The Cross Keys Inn. Mary is sitting on the armrest, her grey t-shirt now decorated with Christmas trees and elks. The arrow still pointing at me relentlessly. “Telling him you don't have friends? Really, Sherlock.”

She moves aside, clearing the view to a frozen image of John sitting in the other chair, obviously hurt. I hate remembering that moment. Probably (definitely) hurt myself more that him. I try to make the look on his face go away, but fail. Apparently am no longer in control of my mind palace at all. Briefly wonder how close to death my body really is.

“That wasn't the first time you have hurt him, right?” Mary whispers into my ear, then lightly bites into my ear lobe. My (imaginary) body shivers in response, and she claps her hands in delight. “Oh, but look at how hurt he is, just because you implied he's not your friend.” She looks at John, and all of sudden there is a spotlight on his face, highlighting his pained expression.

This demonstration is completely unnecessary. I am fully aware of how mean that comment had sounded. (Mostly because I had wanted it to hurt him. Was lashing out like an animal in pain.) But I have apologized.

Mary just dismisses that with a wave of her hand. “No, you didn't. You explained. Then you said something nice, to make up for the hurt. But you never said sorry.”

Oh. She is right. 

“There were so many times you've hurt him, right?” She gives me that innocent smile again, while images of John and me are scrolling down on the wall next to me. I recognize all those situations, but some of them stick out because I regret them more: 

Me letting John believe I simply didn't needed him in Soo Lin's flat instead of admitting I was nearly being strangled to death.

Me putting (surprisingly not drugged) sugar in his cup of coffee.

Me, stupidly disguised as waiter, seconds before telling him I'm back. 

Me on the rooftop, mobile in my hand.

The last image is the one that makes my chest burn the most. A triumphant grin on Mary's lips, and we are there, on top of St. Bart's. “Two years, Sherlock,” she sings, “two years of mourning. That was the worst, wasn't it?”

Yes. And I hadn't seen the impact it had on both of us coming. I step closer to myself, watching the tears running down my cheek. They were real. “Oh, but that does not matter, dear” Mary tuts. 

“No,” she relentlessly continues, “What matters is that, regardless of how much he means to you, you will always go on hurting him.” She comes closer to me, driving me away from my past image, towards the middle of the roof, until I am leaning against a chimney. “Why do you think you will stop doing that just because now you love him?” 

I don't think I will stop.

The gleam in her eyes turns into something feral, she moves closer to me again. (Way too close.) “Of course, now that he loves you too, it will hurt him even more than before. Do you really think he deserves that?” She slips her arms around me (dislike that), places her hands on my back. My (imaginary) body stiffens with rejection. She laughs and lets her hands wander down until they rest on my bum.(Dislike that deeply.)

“What do you think, how many times can he still stand all that hurt before he will leave you?” She squeezes my buttocks, then one of her hands moves swiftly to my front. I flinch, but her other hand holds me firmly in place. Stronger than in real life, of course. No way to get away from it. She starts to caress my penis through my trousers. My throat closes, feel like I can barely breathe, and yet my (imaginary) body reacts to her (imaginary) stimulus. (Absolutely embarrassing.)

“He will leave you in the end, and you know that.” She is whispering now, her voice low and dangerous. She stops the caressing and grips hard instead. (Stopping exactly on the threshold between arousing and painful.) (Can't stand the embarrassment any longer.) My legs give in, but her hold on my back is so strong that my body remains pressed against her. (Physically impossible.)

“And not just him. Think of the baby, Sherlock.” She stretches her hands a little, now also including my balls. (Stop it.)

“Think of how you will grow to love it. How you will see John in it, how you will open up and let it into your big old romantic heart as well.” She squeezes me again, with increasing force. (More pain than arousal now, or is it? Not sure.) (Want her to stop. Want her to stop right now.)

“And then you will ruin it, and John will take the baby and they will both leave you.” Definitely pain now. I can't help but cry out, (imaginary) sweat on my (imaginary) face. The pain increases, stretches all over my body now. Can't breathe, can't move. (Panic.) The last thing I see is her smiling face right in front of me. Then everything turns bright, too bright, and I close my eyes -

and wake up (for real this time) in a hospital room. While my brain struggles to fully regain consciousness, I feel like I've lost something I never had first place.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I spent the last days trying to make up something half as romantic as your best man's speech, but I can't, so we'll keep it simple.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wonderful beta GoSherlocked has reminded me of the fact that a fic that is tagged "hurt and comfort" does not only need hurt, but also comford. Good point! So, here is some.

I keep drifting in and out of sleep, unable to stay awake. 

Images of my mind palace melting away, replaced by padded reality. Artificial noises I cannot catalogue. Someone calling my name, then rolling onto my (right?) side and onto my back again. John's voice coming from far away. Try to open my eyes but fail. Fall asleep again. 

More voices, unknown. Soft pressure on my (left?) hand. John? Hear his voice (sure it is him now), cannot make out words. Want to tell him I am awake. Try to squeeze his hand, but cannot move. Too tired. Eyes won't open. Asleep again.

Hands on my body. Hear my name. Strange feeling in my throat. Not painful, just unpleasant. Restricted. Breathing against resistance. Dim light. A hand on my cheek, soft words murmured. John. His face close to mine. Oh, my eyes are open now. But unable to deduce anything. Want to touch him, but arms feel like lead. Tired. Fall asleep to the soothing sound of his voice.

A stranger's voice mixing with John's. Light too bright. Blanket removed from my body. Cold. Something even colder and hard pressed against my belly, against my chest. Belly feels tense. Too cold. Want it to be warm again. Feel my legs stir, but am unable to control movement. Leave me alone! Finally the blanket is replaced. Warm. Sleep.

An angry bleeping next to my ear. Breathing is hard. Nearly impossible. Panic. But again, John's voice. Speaking so slowly that I can finally make out words. “Easy, Sherlock. It's all right. You are fighting the respirator. That's good. Take slow, deep breaths.” He repeats it over and over again, until I feel safe again. For the first time I really want to stay awake, but sleep blows my consciousness away again.

The next time I wake up, reality is less padded. I can open my eyes, take a closer look at where I am. Familiar cracks on the wall: the room I sneaked away from. Window: sun near the horizon, about six p.m. John: sleeping in a chair next to my bed, head supported by his right hand. Stubble on his face: not shaved for six days. Dark circles around his eyes: high level of stress for more than ten days. Body posture: back tensed up, legs too.

Looks like my condition was even more serious than last time.

I try to say something (egotistically wanting John to be awake, even though he looks like he needs all the sleep he can get.), but no sound comes out. Lips feel strangely numb, tongue is pressed down by something that does not belong there. Memory of John, mentioning respiration. I want to move my hand to my face and touch the tube to verify. But I am too clumsy, or my arm is too long. My hand ends not even close to my mouth, but somewhere next to my head. The movement wakes John. (So I get what I wanted after all.)

He wakes with a start, looks at me and relaxes a little. “Hey, sleeping beauty” he says, aiming for light-heartedness, but sounding tired and exhausted instead. “Don't try to speak, you are still intubated. See?” He takes my hand and places my fingers on the tube, right where it enters my mouth. “Does it feel like you have to fight a resistance?”

I nod, carefully, and he reaches for something out of my visual field. “The doctors want to remove the tube today. I have just rang for a nurse to tell her you are ready.” I look at him and try to communicate with my glance only. How do you say “I am so glad you are here” with just your eyes?

“Look, while we are waiting for the doctor … There is something I need to tell you as long as you can't talk back. You know I am not good with this kind of stuff, but … When you were dead, I regretted all the things I've never told you. And then you nearly died again, and I still hadn't told you. And now again, and … Well, you got the point, I suppose. It's time to finally … “

For a moment he stops talking (with words, but continues to talk with his face: stiffens his upper lip, looks into my eyes, looks away again, shakes his head, purses his lips, stiffens his upper lip once more. Whatever he is going to say now, it is important to him.) (I could watch him for hours and hours.)

“I spent the last days trying to make up something half as romantic as your best man's speech, but I can't, so we'll keep it simple.”

Does he notice my increasing heartbeat on the monitor? If he does, he does not show any reaction. He takes a deep breath (once more) and says, “Sherlock, I love you. With all my heart. I want you, and I need you in my life. And I know how my life would be without you. Been there, and don't want to go there ever again. I want all the big emotions you can give, you drama queen, and I want all the little things. I want to wake up with you and take care for you when you catch a cold and be annoyed with you when the kitchen is a mess. I love you so much I even dare to be somehow related to Mycroft from now on.”

He tries to let it end on a joke, and I would like to play it cool. But how do you do that when there is a tube stuck in your mouth and tears floating down your cheek? He gives me a sheepish little grin, and then wipes my cheeks dry with a cloth. Kisses me gently on my forehead and nods, upper lip stiff again, but a gleam in his eyes that has not been there before.

* * *

John barely leaves my side during the next weeks. He is there when I try to stand up for the first time after the surgery (and fail miserably. No one else would be allowed to see me fail like this.) 

He is there whenever yet another tube is pulled out some other part of my body. 

He is there whenever someone comes to visit, helps me being nice to them, watches me sharply and hushed them out when he sees that I am getting exhausted. (He is especially alert when Mycroft pays a visit, and at first he is quite taken aback about how close we allow ourselves to be when there is no super villain threaten to watch us, but John gets used to it quickly and stops feeling uneasy in his presence soon.)

He is there when I cry because despite medication there is pain in my chest when I get up and pain when I lay down again and pain when I walk and pain when I sit and the nurses tell me to endure the pain and leave the bed anyway because pain today means it will be better tomorrow but the pain just goes on and on and on. 

He is always there, but in some unspoken agreement, we never talk about his declaration of love again.

The only times he is not there is when we agree that he needs to see Mary to pretend that there is a chance for reunion. He goes to the gynaecologist with her twice, because there is a prenatal test for chromosomal abnormalities recommended for couples of their age, and the outcome could be rather tragic, but the baby turns out to be all right.

She is allowed to see me once, and John leaves us alone while I (falsely) assure her that I will talk him around this time. When she leaves and he comes back, he is strangely quiet. “Mycroft has met me at the cafe,” he explains, unaware that he is playing with my fingers while he speaks. (I let him, never able to resist his touch, no matter how casual.) “Looks like the prenatal test was not altogether our doctor's idea.”

Leave it to my brother to use the cell material collected during that test to confirm that the child is really John's.

* * *

He is also there when I am finally allowed to take a shower and wear my own clothes afterwards. It is amazing how you feel different with trousers and a proper shirt. I feel like myself for the first time in ages. I feel finally brave enough to talk about the most important issue.

"About what you said, when I was still intubated ... “ I start. Should have planned what to say, I realize too late. “I ..."

I what?

I love you so much that I cannot stop composing music about you in my head whenever I miss you but cannot bring myself to write down the notes because nothing I compose can ever match your smile?

I love you more than I can tell you because the words I need for it do not exist yet, but I will invent them if you want me to?

I love you so much that I have already ordered a crib and made a plan about how to turn your old room into a nursery?

I love you?

"I ... concur." I hear myself say. (Oh no. Worst possible choice.) My cheeks flush. I wait for the ground to swallow me. Must be any second now. 

But John grins (!). (Happily.) Nods. Steps closer and embraces me. "You concur" he giggles. Presses me closer against him. "You old romantic." Can feel his body shaking with (honest) silent laughter. He ruffles my hair (needs to tiptoe to do that) and finally, finally kisses me.

It is a rather chaste kiss, but it takes away my breath and makes my entire body prickle and I am no longer sure how I manage to stand on my own, and it goes on and on and I cannot help but silently thank Mary for shooting me to keep John by her side and thereby driving him to mine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thought of John dying is unacceptable, and only having an orgasm immediately will stop me from further thinking about it. (Or so I tell John. He knows it's a trick, but plays along willingly. No wonder I love him.)

Mycroft forces me to go to rehab after the hospital. I try to resist, with good reason. John has basically moved in at Baker Street again. He goes to his (other, now fake) home every so often, but more often than not does he sleep in my, no, our bed. Now that he is finally mine I am unwilling to spend so much as a second away from home.

But Mycroft is adamant. Wish I would loath him as much as I always pretend to do. The fact that John supports his idea only makes it worth. I try to make the following weeks tolerable for me by getting to know my therapists better.

Weddings and babies might or might not change things. Kisses and love declarations certainly do. When John makes it perfectly clear that there will be no more kissing until I stop scaring away one therapist a day, I have no choice but obey.

* * *

I want to wait before mentioning the flash drive again until I am sure that John is happier in our relationship than he has been in his marriage. “Prepare to wait a long, long time,” my inner Mary whispers into my ear in September, when I forget to concentrate on willing her away during my physiotherapy.

But she has a point, so when I come home, feeling tired out and battered already, I place it on the table. John looks at it for a long time. “Why?” he asks then. “We already know more than enough about her.”

A hollow feeling starts to spread through my body. Why not? What reason could he have to avoid it?

“Maybe he has changed his mind about me,” my inner Mary giggles. “He went to see me this afternoon, didn't he?” Yes, he did. Spent a few hours with her, pretending (?) that there is a slight chance he might forgive her one day. He objected to it, but went because I told him so.

Did she convince him to really forgive him one day? (Could she? Could he?) Was he reminded of the wonderful (?) time they had? But his boredom-infused nightmares started only days after the marriage. Plus, he loves me. More than her. Whatever it was they had, “wonderful” is clearly the wrong word to describe it.

“Are you sure?” my inner Mary wonders, and so do I.

“What is going on in your mind palace right now?” John's voice makes her crumble to dust. When did he start embracing me? (There is no better place on earth than in John's arms. What a shame I missed some minutes of it.) Instead of answering I lean into the embrace. Does he understand what I am telling him this way? Seems like he does, for he does not ask me again.

We open the file on the flash drive later that night. John keeps on holding my hand, or toughing my knee, or stroking my back the entire time, so casually that I don't have to comment on it. He really is a genius when it comes to handling me.

Studying the Word document, I cannot help but admire her manipulation skills. Everything mentioned is the truth. Only that the data is incomplete, essential facts missing, thus creating a new, better reality. 

It mentions exactly the number of atrocious deeds that John could forgive after a while. 

He only shakes his head and makes an indignant sound before closing the file. Then he pulls me to bed and presses his body so close to mine that I have no choice but to feel safe.

* * *

“Better get laid soon, it won't be long until you'll hurt him so much he'll go away,” my inner Mary purrs while John is kissing me on the sofa in October. I close my eyes as hard as I can, concentrate on where John's hands are right now and what his tongue is doing to my ear lobe right now and wish she were wrong.

Getting laid is far out of my reach at the moment. Not only due to my body that is still struggling to heal, but also due to my inexperience. (Remember how surprised John has been at hearing that Mycroft had indeed been right about me being a virgin. Remember the way my eyes were stinging when he declared it impossible to believe that he is the one who has the privilege (!!!) to introduce me to sex.)

(Remember my surprise during my first John-made orgasm. Finally understood why people are doing that all the time.)

John decided to “TAKE IT SLOW”. And we do. Funny how I can love him even more every day.

Still, the fear of hurting him is never far away. Neither is my inner Mary and her terrible shirt. Looks like the arrow is bigger every time I see her in my mind. Like when I mention to John that I am about halfway through with creating a plan to bring Magnussen down. (One of the few advantages of rehab. Endless time to think about important matters while sitting on that ridiculous stationary bike whose name I delete again every day.)

Apparently not a good topic. John freezes, then leaves without a word. When he returns (after forty-three minutes, breathing hard, wet from the rain, with dirt on his shoes that tells me how fast he has walked and hence how angry he has been) he shouts at me, then leaves the sitting room to make tea (in a really angry fashion that I must admit is as arousing as it is frightening), then finally finally ends up on the sofa with his head on my lap.

“The last time we went to face him you nearly died, Sherlock,” he says quietly. Won't listen to the fact that Magnussen himself had no part in me being shot. Won't listen to the fact that there is no one else willing to bring Magnussen down but us. 

We continue talking about it for another while, but no matter how lovingly I pet his head, he does not change his mind. It becomes clear that I will have to alter my plan. I will take Magnussen down, no doubt about that. I just won't tell John that he is in it with me more than five minutes in advance.

That night, John needs to be held for hours and hours before he finally falls asleep in my arms.

* * * 

“What would he want with an amateur like you in the long run?” my inner Mary laughs in November, when I stumble awkwardly through giving John my first hand job ever. 

“Shut up!” I hiss. John opens his eyes and gives me a curious look, but a slight change in the pressure I am applying closes his eyes again and forces out a (wonderful) (aroused) (arousing) moan. I lean forward and let my tongue slip into his open mouth just to make sure he will forget my blunder. 

He does not mention it afterwards. But after we went to bed John asks, “What about Victoria?” Out of the blue. Hate when he is doing that at night. When there is light, I can (almost) always tell what he was thinking before throwing a context free line at me. I just have to watch his eye movement. But at night, in near darkness, I am lost.

“Which Victoria?” I have to ask, already narrowing down the possible Victorias from one hundred sixty-eight to fifty-four.

John laughs. A wonderful sound, even when he laughs at my stupidity. “No, as a baby's name,” he explains, still (oh so gently) caressing my arm with his fingers. (One thing I never anticipated about John. No matter how wild or hard or inept the orgasm has been, afterwards he is the most gentle person in the world. But did he really imply ...)

Oh. He did. “You want me to take part in naming the baby?” I cannot help myself, I need to verify. I can tell that his movements come to a complete stop for three seconds. Then he pulls me even closer.

“Of course. Sherlock, we are going to raise that child together. Of course we will find its name together.” I am sure there are words for all these hot feelings that are filling my chest right now, but I cannot find a single one that would fit. 

So instead, I think about names. But how do you name someone you don't know yet?

“What about Hamish?” I ponder, “Or John junior? Or Joan, if it's a girl?” In my mind I can see a three year old version of John hopping from one puddle to the next. A second John, what could be better?

But for some reasons John's body tenses at my suggestion. “No way!” he says, so harsh that there has to be a reason. Have I done something wrong (again)? I do not know what, but that seldom means I did everything right. I hold my breath and wait for his explanation. (He always explains. Knows how lousy I am with this kind of things.) 

I have to wait two point six minutes before he elaborates, “There is a horrible tradition in my family. We only name babies after real people when they have died recently or are going to die soon. Sorry, but no Hamish or Joan. That's too scary.”

Yes, it is. The thought of John dying is unacceptable, and only having an orgasm immediately will stop me from further thinking about it. (Or so I tell John. He knows it's a trick, but plays along willingly. No wonder I love him.)

* * *

“I think you are running out of time, my dear,” my inner Mary taunts me at the beginning of December. She is right, not only concerning my relationship with John.

There is a scan of the baby. John and I come along. Not easy to pretend that I will only be the child's eccentric uncle Sherlock. When we see it moving its arms I am so overwhelmed by what the future could hold for us that I involuntarily squeeze John's hand. I compensate the blunder by quickly grabbing Mary's hand and squeeze it as well.

She has seen me getting over-involved with their wedding. She does not find my over-involvement with their child strange. 

Anyway, the more important incident takes place before the examination. We wait, without talking much. (John avoids talking to her, looking grim. Just like we planned.) (I love him endlessly, but I (rightfully) still don't trust his (non-existing) talent to tell lies. Silently grudging is the best choice of action here.) Mary skims through some of the magazines and newspapers that are lying on the table in the waiting room.

When she sees one that belongs to Magnussen's empire, she shudders accidentally. Our eyes lock, and she knows she has given away more than she wanted.

“You know, John,” I say without looking away from her, “if you go now, you will be finished before the doctor will see us.” He knows that I want him out of the waiting room, and obediently goes to the toilet. She knows that he knows and watches me expectantly.

I play it by the book: lean forward, create a closeness between us that is not there in reality. (Disgusting.) Lower my voice even though we are alone in the room, “I am already working on a plan to take CAM down. My vow still applies to you, no matter what John might feel for you at the moment.” 

I can read in her face that she believes me. “What will you do?” Clever girl. But I am not willing to give it away, especially not to someone I don't trust at all.

“I cannot tell you the details, but there is one thing you need to know: If John invites you for Christmas, say yes!” Then I best myself, lower my voice even more, “Don't tell John there is a plan. He does not react well to any plans concerning Magnussen.”

So we share a secret. Have a common goal. Renewed the bond that was once there. 

Now all I have to do to safeguard John's unborn child is conceal my plan from the man I love, deceive his wife, outsmart my brother, probably have my parents drugged and conduct the deal I made with the devil.

For the first time, I am enjoying the Christmas season.


	7. Chapter 7

Christmas comes and I feel glorious. Confident. And something else, something that takes me an (embarrassingly long) moment to identify. A feeling I have so seldom that it hits me by surprise at first. I feel happy.

John, more or less, lives at Baker Street again. We have sex on every suitable surface (really, on every, I'm keeping track) and on a few unsuitable ones. To my utter surprise, it is not only an acceptable price to pay for John's presence in my life. No, it is (fantastic consuming earth-movingly) good. When it is time to sleep we go to bed together, and John does not disturb my sleeping pattern but improves it. When I hold him in my arms before falling asleep he presses his back against my front, so close that nothing can come between us. When he holds me he presses his nose into my curls.

Every now and then he goes back to Mary to stay in their (boring) home for a night or two. I spend some of the time with experiments and planing Magnussen's downfall, and most of the time with not being jealous. Experimenting and planning goes well. 

I invite us all to my parents' home for Christmas. To John's surprise, Mary willingly agrees to come along. Mummy predictably forces Mycroft to come as well, not knowing of course that his presence is the key to the success of my plan. (His presence, and that of his laptop of course.)

I write a little speech for John, about the problems of Mary's past and the problems of her future and not having read what's on the stick. It is touching. She will cry when he'll tell her. (And probably embrace him. Maybe even kiss him. Terrible thought. But necessary.)

I had already met Magnussen when I was still in hospital, weeks before Christmas. Making a deal with him was (surprisingly) easy. 

My parents are perfect, loving and sweet as always, and Mary is clearly affected by them and the Christmas spirit, just like she is supposed to be. John prepares to deliver his little speech, and we still find time for some secret (elevating) snogging in my old room.

When we sneak out for a cigarette, Mycroft lets me know that he is aware of my plan and approves. He even goes so far and tells me how much he cares for me. (Hope I did not let it show how much I love him in return. He would be an unbearable prick if I did.)

The plan unravels. John “forgives”, Mary believes, everybody has punch or tea, John brought his gun and the helicopter is perfectly on time.

In short, for a brief moment all is perfect. 

It is still perfect when we get into Appledore with the gun. (Was right, Magnussen does not consider us a serious threat.)

It is still perfect when Magnussen shows us the record of me pulling John out of the bonfire (Love to read John's thought on his face, “How could I not see earlier how much Sherlock loves me?”).

It is still perfect when Magnussen explains his chain of pressure points. 

It is still perfect when he tells me my plan, but a bit less so. He is slightly too relaxed. Why?

And then everything crumbles away with four little words, “There are no vaults.”

There are no vaults.

It echoes in my head, loud and shrill, drowning out John's and Magnussen's voices. There are no vaults.

For a paralysing moment, all other thoughts are erased from my brain. No vaults.

No. Vaults. 

And while Magnussen and John move on to go outside, it is still pulsating in my brain, matching my (highly elevated) heartbeat: No. Vaults. No. Vaults. No. Vaults. No. Vaults. 

When I can think again, still standing in front of the chamber on my own, it takes me only twenty-two seconds to come to the conclusion: I must destroy all information Magnussen has on Mary. All information Magnussen has on Mary is inside his head. Hence, I must destroy his head.

Coming to that conclusion took little time. Accepting that conclusion takes longer. I am not a killer. I only took someone's life once, in self-defence, and it haunted me for months. I never ever murdered someone. 

(“I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” my inner Mycroft repeats the real Mycroft's words.)

And yet, John's gun weighs heavy in the pocket of his coat. I did not have this scenario in mind when I told him to bring it, but it is there, ready to send a bullet into Magnussen's brain. I am not. And yet -

(“A job offer I should like you to decline,” he said.)

And yet, the near future unravels in my mind. I will not shoot Magnussen. He will try to blame us for selling state secrets. Won't be proven, for there is nothing on the laptop anyway. (I never checked, but am sure of it. Mycroft, always two steps ahead of everyone else.) No matter what Magnussen will do next, Mary will never feel safe again. Will disappear. With the unborn child. Will leave John heart-broken over yet another terrible loss. And in end, it does not matter if John will blame me for losing his child or not. What matters is that he will be broken.

Unacceptable.

Or worse. I will not shoot Magnussen. He will contact some of the people looking for Mary (good people most likely, with good reasons to find her). They will decide to take revenge, killing not Mary, but John instead. Collateral damage, just to make a point.

Absolutely unacceptable.

I follow John and Magnussen. Slowly. No vaults. No alternative. That's what you get from feeling perfectly happy for a while.

(“A job offer I should like you to decline.” So Mycroft suspected it would come to this and sent me a warning. “An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.”)

A clear warning. The near future unravels in my mind once more. I will shoot Magnussen. In front of Mycroft and his men. Will be imprisoned. Unacceptable, no way to keep my sanity in a prison cell. So Mycroft will try to come to the rescue, but with Serbia being the only alternative. A delayed death sentence. Better than insane. Mycroft will try to rescue me from there, but his chances are slim. So I will be dead. But John will have his child. He will hate me for leaving him, hate me for dying (again), but he will not be broken.

Acceptable.

No vaults. No alternative.

Shooting Magnussen now will only make his security kill us in return. The only acceptable moment to do it is when Mycroft and his minions are already here. So I wait, trying to steel myself for the task. (Why does it feel like I cannot breathe properly?) I have to signal John to accept Magnussen's perverted face-flicking game to buy us time. (My stomach revolting when I'm forced to witness it.)

Watching it should make it easier to accept that I will kill him any minute now. Still, when John says my name for confirmation, my legs feel like giving in. I can barely contain myself. How I manage to answer him is beyond my imagination.

When the helicopter arrives, it is nearly an alleviation. I step forward to join John and Magnussen. To stand by John's side (most likely) for the last time. (And to nick his gun.) Try to prepare him for what I am about to do by summing up our situation. (But he does not get it. Asks me again what we will do. Does not understand what I am trying to tell him, because he never expected me to kill someone in cold blood. Neither did I, but there is nothing I would not do for John Watson.) (Except staying by his side and thereby risking his life.)

I hesitate for one last moment. Magnussen's words echoing in my mind, “No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes.” No. That much is true. But there still is a dragon to slay. I know that I am talking when I leave John's side (oh, how symbolic!), but I have already forgotten what I was saying. All I really notice is the gun in my hand and the smug look on Magnussen's face and how something I cannot name inside me tears apart when I pull the trigger. 

The rest of this night is a blur of noises and shadows and wind and tears and adrenaline and sickness and loss. When my world comes back into focus again, I am sitting in a holding cell, completely alone.


	8. Chapter 8

The cell is austere. Bed, table, chair, shelf, barred window. Basin, behind a door the toilet. More or less. A look out of the window confirms my supposition, Her Majesty's Prison Full Sutton, York. 

Of course, I am a category A prisoner. “Those whose escape would be highly dangerous to the public or national security,” my mind delivers via my inner Mycroft. “Offences that may result in consideration for Category A or Restricted Status include: Attempted murder, Manslaughter, Wounding with intent, Rape, Indecent assault, Robbery or conspiracy to rob (with firearms), Firearms offences, Importing or supplying Class A controlled drugs, Possessing or supplying explosives, Offences connected with terrorism and Offences under the Official Secrets Act.“ 

I can tell that something is wrong with me when my mind quotes Wikipedia.

So I am located amongst the most dangerous prisoners of the UK. How fitting. Not that I am likely to meet any of them. After my (short, but disastrous) time at Belmarsh Prison in 1998, it was understood between Mycroft and me that contact with other prisoners should be avoided at all costs.

The memory of everything that happened after I … after the shooting (can't even bring myself to name what I did. Tedious!) is still blurred. I need to access my mind palace to recall it all more clearly.

There is a room for re-watching the parts of my life my conscience missed the first time. It used to look like Auntie Rose's living room. Now it is the (only) cinema John forced me to visit to watch a Bond film with him four years ago.

I can tell that something is wrong with me when my mind palace is black and white.

Even here my memory is fragmentary. Apparently I was pushed to the ground by one of the marksmen, firmly fixed. Facing Magnussen's body. His empty eyes staring at me. His glasses askew on his nose, arranged like it could be seen in an overly dramatic B-movie. I want to get a (last?) look at John, but my head is fixed, too. 

I was pushed into the helicopter. Of the ride I have no memory except the look on Mycroft's face. (Disappointed? Sad. Scared?) 

I was pushed into a grey room where an unimpressed security guard undressed me, searching for guns in my clothes and for drugs in the most private places. Try to delete that memory instantly, but it does not work.

In my cell, rules were read to me. (No contact with other prisoners. One visitor every two days. Daily solitary shower under supervision. Access to the library for good conduct. Thirty minutes solitary workout under supervision.)

I must have slept, eaten, gone to the toilet, but the memory of that is inaccessible. A memory that floats to the surface again and again is Magnussen's dead face.

I think there should be feelings attached to those memories, but there are none. “Bit not good, that” my inner John says with pity. He is translucent, barely visible. He offers me some of his virtual popcorn. I decline. 

There have been times when I was isolated before, during what John calls my “hiatus” and before. It never bothered me, for my mind palace has always been a perfect hiding place. Now its colourlessness unnerves me. Every wall, every door is plastered with a poster of Magnussen's dead face. Every person I conjure is translucent.

I get out of there before my mind snaps, but only scarcely so.

When lunch is brought to my cell, I (politely) ask for access to the library. It is denied. I need to show good conduct first. I start to do so by not arguing. John would be proud.

Or would he? 

I am still not good with emotions, but I am fairly sure that he is angry with me. (In the long run, he surely will be grateful. When he will hold his baby in his arms, for example. But now, he must be terribly angry, because I managed, once again, to do the only thing he asked me not to do. I left him. Again.)

I spend some time calculating the number of bricks in the walls. Then I delete the result so I can calculate it again tomorrow. 

I spend some time looking out of the window, extrapolating tomorrow's weather. (Sunny at first, cloudy in the afternoon. Still too warm for December.)

I am ushered to a small workout room that smells like sweat. A guard (not happy about working on Christmas) watches while I obediently continue the programme I have learned in rehab after I got shot. My inner clock is precise, I am finished after exactly thirty minutes.

I am ushered to the showers. The same guard watches as I undress. I try to deduce if he enjoys his job more, now that I am naked, but fail. Most likely he is simply bored. I am torn between wanting to stretch my stay under the shower to maximise the time I am to spend outside my cell, and hurrying to get away from my guard's impassive observation and get dressed again. I cannot make up my mind, so I simply wait until he tells me to finish.

I can tell that something is wrong with me when I am not only relieved but happy to see Mycroft that afternoon. The first thing I feel all day. He is oozing with concern. “How are you?” he asks. I don't know.

“John has asked permission to visit you,” he tells me while watching me carefully. Only one visitor every second day, I recall. “I could arrange for him to come here tomorrow,” Mycroft goes on, still scanning my expression carefully. And expose me to John's anger and (How does he feel about having watched me turning from a dragon slayer into a murderer? How does he feel about me leaving him again as a direct result of that?) disappointment? Rather not, thank you.

Mycroft stays for another hour. Tells me he is already negotiating to turn my imprisonment into some kind of service to the crown, but so far Serbia is the only alternative. I wonder if I really deserve something else.

Only when he is gone again do I realise that I have not spoken a single word since asking for permission to visit the library. “Bit not good, that” my inner John says again. I can only agree with him. Silently.

* * *

The second day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Surprisingly, Mycroft shows up again. He brings along a Stratego game. We play eight matches. I lose every single time. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak a single word, not even in my nightmare.

The third day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again. He brings along Stratego again. We play six matches. I lose every single time, but it is a lot closer now. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak a single word.

The fourth day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again. He brings along Stratego again. We play four matches. I win the last. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak.

The fifth day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again. He brings along a Reversi gameboard. We play ten matches. I lose every single time. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak a single word, not even in my nightmare.

The sixth day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again.

And with him John.

I turn away from them so quickly that our eyes only meet for less than a second. Memories of Mary surface all of sudden. Sitting in our living room. Telling John she does not want to watch how he stops loving her. I finally understand what she means. 

I can hear a pair of footsteps moving away (Mycroft), another pair coming closer (John). Coming to a stop right behind me. “Sherlock, ...” he starts and stops again. Impossible to deduce how angry he is with me. Or if he still loves me. (Why should he?) I wish I would still not feel anything.

I silently wait for him to tell me whatever it is that made him take the long journey from London to York. (By helicopter, provided by Mycroft.) Hear him clearing his throat. Brace myself (as much as possible). My body tense, my mind too. Come on, hurry up. Tell me you are angry with me. Tell me that this has been the last time I left you because you are leaving me now. Tell me how you will raise the baby with or without Mary, but definitely without me. How you will grow old without me.

“Sherlock, I am sorry you had to do that for me,” he says then, his voice genuinely sorry. His hand softly stroking my back. “I should have been the one to shoot Magnussen, not you. I can never make up for that, love.”

That is John for you. Most people (including me, apparently) get him wrong. He is not the Damsel In Distress. He is not the White Knight. In reality, he is the Pauper that turns out to be the real Prince in the end. 

“You don't have to,” I say softly, my voice harsh from not being used for nearly a week. I find the courage to turn around, look into his (still loving, sad) eyes. This breaks the last straw. I stumble into his (always open) arms, hide my face in his (soft) jumper. Feel him embracing me, steadily, then gently rocking me as I cry over the innocence I've lost the second the bullet hit Magnussen's brain, over the future John and I most likely will not have, over the baby I will not see grow up. 

When I am finally done crying (after one hour and thirty-eight minutes), he continues to hold me while I tell him about how it felt to kill (terrible, heart-wrenching, destructive), how I am scared to lose my mind in solitary confinement, how my mind palace betrays me, how much I love him, how I am scared for him and the baby now that he has to face Mary without me, how I do not know what will happen to me and how I missed him. The only thing I do not tell him is that Serbia is really a death sentence, not an escape.

Then he tells me how he still believes that Mycroft will come up with some clever trick, how he will not believe that I will end up in prison for good, how he loves me and how everything will be all right in the end.

I still don't know what will happen to me, or when it will happen. All I know, all I need to know right now is that John's arms will always be open and that killing Magnussen was a small price to pay to protect the love of my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote on category A prisoners is taken from here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prisoner_security_categories_in_the_United_Kingdom


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The scene at the tarmac is the one that needs to be fixed the most. Here we go.
> 
> (2) Sorry for causing bit of a chaos the other day when I accidentally posted chapter 8 again as chapter 9 and had to erase it afterwards. That is what happens when you edit your work with a kicking and flailing baby on your arm. Warm thanks to all those who told me!

The monotonous life of solitary confinement goes on like that for a while. Breakfast, bricks, lunch, weather, workout, shower, visitor, emptiness, sleep. Nightmares. I still don't speak that much. John comes every third day, Mycroft is there in between. We all don't know when this routine will be over, and what will happen then.

I know that Mycroft is doing all he can to negotiate me out of the MI6 assignment in Serbia and out of prison as well. I just don't think that he will be successful. And by the way, I am not sure that I deserve being negotiated out of it. No matter that my motives were noble, in the end I killed a man in cold blood.

It is haunting me more than I care to admit. Sometimes, when all is quiet, I hear the shot echoing in my mind. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I remember the look on John's face afterwards. And every time I sleep, I dream of dusk and helicopter noise and red dots and wind and death. After three weeks it becomes clear that I will not be able to stand this life any longer. 

John refuses to believe that Serbia will be a death trap. He is completely adamant that Mycroft will find a way out. “You will not die there,” he states matter-of-factly while holding me tight. His optimism is so radiant that I tend to believe it as well. Occasionally. 

Whenever he leaves, he refuses to say the big goodbye. “I'll see you in three days,” he always says and presses a chaste kiss on my nose or my forehead or my cheek. I play along, ignoring the sword of Damocles for a moment. 

He always makes sure that we talk about the future, make plans that we will probably (almost certainly) never realise. “We can turn my old room into a nursery,” he suggests and makes me talk about wall papers and carpets and changing tables. “I want to introduce you to my parents,” he smirks and laughs at my horror-stricken face.“We need to talk about how to go on once the baby is born,” he says but flatly refuses to do so now, because there will be enough time for it later on. 

On his sixth visitor’s day he brings along Mary. (Mycroft's idea. She is still to believe we are friends.) I feel like one of those precious John-days is completely wasted. But I am nice to her, because soon I will not be able to protect John and Baby Watson any other way.

She allows me to touch her belly, and Baby Watson kicks against my hand. It renders me speechless for nearly an hour.

When they leave, Mary hugs me and cries because, as she states rather clearly, “we will most likely never meet again.” My fragile hope shatters instantly. I catch John's glance over her shoulder. It hurt him just as badly as it hurt me. She is really evil with those little things.

The next two non-John-days pass in a haze. Mycroft ensures me that he is still trying to help me out, “I am already organizing backup for you in Serbia.” But I know that he has to be discrete about it and hence is limited in his resources. It is unthinkable what would happen (especially to our parents) should it become widely known that the Iceman is in fact a loving family man. 

Mummy and Dad don't come to visit me. They think I am heroically working undercover, extensively protected by my big brother.

When John comes back three days after Mary's visit, he is still clearly shaken. “You will not die,” he repeats over and over again. We embrace so hard I can barely breathe. For once, I have to cheer up him, and not the other way round. Funny feeling. Not my most prominent strength.

But I seem to make do.

“I was thinking about Emilia for girl and Anthony for a boy,” I let him know after the long long long embrace. (Have given that a lot of thought, carefully avoiding every living relative of him and of me. Of course his belief in the Watson Curse is pitifully weird, but important to him, nevertheless.)

He smiles (open smile with a tint of sadness). “That sounds wonderful,” he says. “I was thinking of Grace or Joshua. But Mary insists on Evelyn or George.” His parents. He has broken all contact with them, but hopes to see them again one day. Choosing their names for Baby Watson seems to be a loving gesture by his beautiful wife. 

But she knows exactly why he does not want the baby to be named after living relatives. Knows exactly that so far, if the name of a relative is used for a Watson child, it is the name of a dying or dead relative. With the sad exception of Auntie Rose who had a deadly car accident just three days after her niece had been named after her.

In the end it is just another cruel move by his bossy wife. The thought of leaving John and GraceOrJoshua with her is even more scary than my imminent death. Need to talk about it with Mycroft soon.

When John leaves that day, he is extremely fierce about the “See you in three days” part of saying goodbye. He tells me about the scan they will have tomorrow morning, that will most likely tell them if it will be an Emilia or an Anthony. “Grace or Joshua” I correct him, and he smiles again.

The next day, Mycroft comes along earlier than usually. He does not have to say a word. I know that I will leave for Serbia now. 

We keep our (inevitable) conversation factual. Mycroft promises to work out a plan for John and GraceOrJoshua that is strongly orientated on what John wants. I state my confidence in his ability to work out a way to support me in Serbia. He informs me about the (suicide) mission, tells me all about (very rare) safe houses and (even rarer) supporters. I quip about how grateful I am that I was allowed to keep my hairstyle in prison. He sneers at my vanity in the face of danger.

We spend fifteen minutes pretending I will return to England after successfully finishing my assignment. Fifteen minutes for me to dream of a domestic bliss I never knew I wanted. John in the kitchen, preparing tea. GraceOrJoshua sleeping in my arms. The smell of infant all over the flat. Mrs Hudson and Molly standing by to babysit while John and I solve spectacular cases and have spectacular sex afterwards. Fifteen minutes to believe I still have a future.

“We should bid farewell here, not out in the open,” Mycroft says then. I prepare to shake his hand when the unspeakable happens. He ignores my outstretched hand and pulls me into a fierce embrace. One of his hands is holding me at my back, the other is pressed against the back of my head. He does not say a word, just holds me tight and pets my curls.

This is when I know for sure that I will die.

There is nothing left to say really, so I remain silent. Just allow myself to lean into the embrace, feel like the ten year old boy that snuggles against big brother in the aftermath of a devastating hour at the vet. Thankfully he ignores the tears in my eyes when letting me go again.

“I will continue to try helping you out,” he promises on our way to the car, but his heart is not in it. He knows that course is lost.

“You will keep John and the baby safe,” I instruct him, “that will be your top priority.” Because there is no telling what Mary will do if John tries and leaves her.

Will he still try and leave her with me dead? I don't know. (Breaks my heart.)

At the tarmac, we wait for John and (inevitably) for Mary. Enough time to contemplate how I can let John know that there is no hope for me any longer. (Because, just saying so out in the open, even in front of his body guard, could compromise Mycroft's cover. The world is not to know that he tried to help me out at all. All of sudden, I am tired of playing games, speaking in riddles, making believe.)

When they arrive Mary hops out of the car, grinning. She can barely conceal how happy she is to see me leave. Still, we both play the game one last time, feigning sympathy, hugging, touching arms. Exchanging a smile. She lets go of me and marks her territory by linking arms with John immediately. Another little mean gesture. Disgusting.

John is so stiff that I am afraid he will put his back out. Dark bags under his eyes. Looks nearly broken. I can barely stand seeing him like that. A tiny tiny part of me hopes that I'll be in the plane soon, just to bring this painful goodbye to an end. I manage to send the others away so John and I can talk one last time in (relative) private. (For who knows how many bugs there are attached to the plane or to the car or to the body guard or to whatever. That's the game Mycroft plays, with the Mycrofts of other nations and other organisations.)

John tries to keep up his smile, but can barely look at me. What I want to do is take him in my arms and kiss him senseless, pressing our pelvises together and feel him getting hard right here in front of everyone. Or hide in his arms and cry like a little child, make him caress me and press those chaste little kisses on my face. Or just stand opposed to him and look into his wonderful eyes for hours, see his love for me shining through.

What I do instead is letting him know that there really is no hope for us any longer. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” I say, “if you’re looking for baby names.” Meaning: I am dying.

“No,” he says and adds quickly, “we’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s a girl.” Meaning not only “It will be a Grace” but also “No, you are not dying.”

My heart beats faster at the prospect of baby Grace cuddled up in John's arms. So when he says that the game is over, I disagree vehemently. Because no matter that I won't be there, he will have her to protect and to love and to admire.

I cannot bring myself to say goodbye just yet, so I chat about a story Mycroft told me when I was young. Then we talk about my “undercover work in Eastern Europe” as if John would not know about it just to make sure that Mycroft's cover works (I owe that to him for trying to safe me all those years. Plus it gives me another stolen minute in John's company.) I bravely lie about the suicide aspect of it, just to make sure, leaving it with an uncertain but fake “Who knows”.

I am unwilling to stop talking, not ready yet to leave him for good, so I keep on talking. “John, there’s something I should say ...” I start, not knowing where this sentence will lead me. “I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have.” If I don't stop myself now, I will declare love beyond death to him right here. Think, Sherlock. Find a better ending to this ludicrously pathetic speech. “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”No, not better. Still too close to “I will always love you”. But I will. Does he know?

I watch him, see him squirm, see the expression on his face, the haunted look in his eyes. He knows. And that is what I will leave behind this time. When I jumped off the roof, I left a broken man who had no idea how much he was loved. No, I leave behind the man who would have been willing to raise a baby with me, who loved me spiritually and physically in more ways I ever thought possible, who will soldier on no matter what. Who knows that I am saying “I love you” right now without needing to hear it.

Who still holds the misguided hope that I will not die within the next six months. So I try to make it crystal clear one last time, “Sherlock is actually a girl's name.” Meaning: “I will die. Please forgive me for leaving you.”

I watch him crack up, trying to regain his composure and fail for a moment. Neglecting it again. A true smile crosses his face then, when he understands that I have also said “I love you” one last time. I take it in, make a mental picture of it that I will hide in my mind palace, planing to hide it until the moment I die, and the take it out and look at it while my life ends. (If I die slowly, that it.) 

I am probably smiling back for a second, tears already stinging. I desperately need to get it together now, or I will break down right here. So I collect myself, and instead of hugging and kissing and loving I stretch out my hand, “To the very best of times, John.”

He hesitates for what feels like hours, apparently contemplating hugging and kissing and loving himself, but bravely plays along in the end. Shakes my hand, looks me straight in the eye, cannot bring himself to say something. When my heart is utterly completely broken by the look in his eyes, I turn around and enter the plane without looking back again.

I even sit on the right side of the plane, knowing that looking out of the window there I will not see him (standing next to Mary, probably even holding hands) as the plane departs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, that turned out a bit more heartbreaking than I thought, but fortunately we all know that the plane will turn around soon.


	10. Chapter 10

I am not surprised very easily. Neither is Mycroft. And yet, when I am standing on that tarmac again, less than fifteen minutes after departing, I can tell that he is as stunned as I am. (So he is not the one behind it. Half expected it, but then it is not his style. Too crude, too obvious.) 

I watched the little “Did you miss me?“ clip on my mobile before landing, my mind racing. Who sent it, and why? There is no doubt that Moriarty is dead, of course. Have seen the brain dripping out of his head after he blew away the back of his skull. Know that Mycroft had his body taken away. So what could be the reason behind this campaign? I don't know. Interesting.

More interesting though is the sheer panic Mary can barely conceal. (Already suspected her to have some link to him.) Something criminal that frightens her. Must be really scary. 

The look on John's face is unreadable. 

He catches me staring at him while Mycroft tries to assure Mary that Moriarty is really dead. Slightly shakes his head. Not here. I force myself to avert my eyes again. I am not sure what I am feeling, so I concentrate on the Moriarty Enigma instead. (And when did I become someone who wonders what he is feeling while faced with an enigma like that? Love seems to do strange things to the chemical balance of the brain.)

Before long, I am sitting in Mycroft's car again, the Watsons following us in the other one. “Well,” Mycroft says, looking out of the window, pretending to be mildly interested at best, “what do we make of Mrs Watson's … excitement?” But I am too tired, too overwhelmed for a conversation full of double meanings and hinted intentions. 

“I don't know,” I just answer, and my brother's head snaps around. He scans me, and his whole composure changes.

“She must have a solid reason to fear him,” he thinks aloud, his voice free from pretence, for once. “That is our advantage, actually. That way we have a reason to include her in the investigations so we can have an eye on her. She is due in two weeks anyway, you and John need to inform me about how you wish to proceed then. Though the most logical way would be to wait until she gave birth and then sue her for all the crimes we can link to her definitely. The right of custody for baby Watson will be assigned to the father, of course.” 

Our eyes meet, and he hesitates only for the fraction of a second before adding, “There is a complete set with basic equipment for baby Watson stored at one of my facilities. It should match the doctor's mundane taste and fits perfectly into his old room at 221b.” He gives me a little private smile, “The carrier is colour-coordinated with most of your shirts.” 

I am very close to being honestly touched (and that is all I will ever admit on that matter).

The ride to Mycroft's bigger operation base takes another thirty minutes after that, and I need the first ten minutes of it to fully realize that I will go neither to Serbia nor back to prison. I will stay in London, will live in 221b with John and GraceNotEmilia, will grow old. (Well, should probably not bet too much money on the last one, but still.) I will have a future. 

Regardless of the fact that I am a murderer. I will go unpunished, no matter what I deem to be right. Maybe that I am still dreaming of Magnussen's dead eyes and the (incredibly small amount of) blood dripping from his temple every night is my punishment. Maybe the shot that still echoes in my mind is worse than any legal punishment.

Mycroft keeps on plotting all the way, of course. I will heroically save England and the Crown by eliminating the Moriarty threat for good (how convenient that Jim's body is still stored away in some unofficial governmental freezer.) The Committee will hence pardon me, the public who did not get to know details on the Magnussen murder anyway will celebrate me the usual way, blah, blah, blah.

While that plot is conducted, we will need to find out who really broadcast the clip and why. There is a list of twenty-six potential enemies, combined with thirteen possible motives. I cannot help but find the task ahead intriguing. Very soon I am fully innolved, following Mycroft's fast-pacing thoughts, trying to bring in my own ideas before he can think of them himself, my mind racing. I am high on adrenaline and brilliance.

When we arrive at the secret operations base in the middle of London, I feel like I am sparkling with energy. Not sure my feet are touching the ground while I'm dancing into the building. Inside, the atmosphere is enthralling. Mycroft's minions are running up and down the corridors, there is buzzing and murmuring everywhere. Huge monitors on the wall show people under a surveillance that is surely not officially approved.

I turn around to catch John's glance and share my enthusiasm with him, but his face is still unreadable.

Before I can think of it any further, Mycroft takes Mary's arm, “Mrs Watson, it was quite obvious that you harbour certain … feelings for the late Jim Moriarty. Why don't we sit down in a quiet corner and you tell me everything you know about him that I have not figured out yet.”

I am speechless. Mycroft dares to abandon me in the middle of the corridor. Alone. With John. In front of an empty office.

Oh.

Only two seconds pass between realizing that it was a nice gesture and pulling John into said empty office. In a fluid motion he has to find extremely sexy I lock the door, swivel him against the wall, press his body against mine and start kissing his neck.

His body moves towards mine instantly (a subconscious movement, two objects that belong together, finding each other like two magnets), his hands clinging to my coat, his whole body shivering in anticipation. Our bodies are so close that I can feel every little crease in his shirt. 

But John's head does not fall back with pleasure when I start biting (softly) into his earlobe. Why does his head not fall back? A little shift of my pelvis tells me that John is not aroused. But why is he shivering then? My hand seeks his face. It is wet.

He is crying. But why is he crying? I got out of prison and will not be send to my certain death. Plus there is the amazingly interesting Moriarty Enigma to be solved. So far, this day is quite spectacular. Why is he sad? Normally I need John to explain situations like that to me.

Stopping to kiss parts of his body seems like a good idea, so I stop kissing his ear. But what now? “John?” I try, not sure what to expect. He just shakes his head. All right, what then? 

I know that a situation like that often requires you to pat the other one's back, so I give it a try. It feels awkward (as always. Maybe I am simply not very good at it.) and John does not react to it at all. I am at a loss.

Then I remember falling apart in his arms the other week in my cell. All he did was holding me and (probably) saying something soothing. So I wrap myself around John, press my cheek against his, carefully start rocking a bit and murmur something down the line of “Everything will be fine”. Apparently, I am better at holding and rocking than at back patting, for John relaxes against my body and starts sobbing really badly.

We stay like that for a while, until he starts to speak. Sorts of. “You nearly … again … you can't … I am so … and the baby … how could you ...damn … sorry, but … Sherlock … please, not again ...”

I think that John can be happy that I am a genius, for I understand everything that he is trying to tell me. It is impossible to see, to feel John being sad without wishing to be able to make him happy again. And the fact that now I am crying too does not embarrass me. 

“I won't,” I promise him, “I won't leave you again. Never. Please believe me. From now on I will be careful and stay out of harm's way and never do something stupid without talking to you about it first and ...”

The shaking of his shoulders changes. He is giggling now, even though the tears are still streaming down his face. “No, you won't, you git,” he says against my chest. “You will keep on running into disaster head over heels. But it's okay as long as you allow me to follow.”

“Always,” I promise. I would love to say so much more, but for some reason my throat it too tight to speak, but it is all right. We don't need to talk much right now. We stay wrapped up in each other for a long while. I hate the way he smells this days, like the shaving foam Mary buys him and the shower gel Mary buys him and a bit like Claire de la lune. A bitter reminder that he is not officially mine, but hers.

Before we sneak out again, he kisses me, desperate and sad and passionate and caring. I take a second to store every part of it in my mind palace before following him out. “We have discussed the motives of broadcasting the clip,” I lie, and John nods. But nobody really cares. 

* * *

The glory and excitement of the Moriarty Enigma is washed away a bit by John's breakdown. It loses even more of its sparkle as the day goes on. There are no real leads and too many potential senders. There are way too many of Mycroft's minions running around, their thoughts interfering with mine. There are tons of footage showing boring people doing boring stuff, and if there is a relevant clue in it, I miss it completely. 

I cannot concentrate here amidst this information overload. My mind is longing for the quiet of our living room. I need my evidence wall, my chair and my violin. Most of all, I need the absence of all people that are not John or Mrs Hudson. Instead, I will surely have to stay in one of the impersonal rooms here, or in Mycroft's city home. Both alternatives are less then tempting, so I bury myself deeper and deeper in the investigation.

After four hours I get irritated. After six hours I am angry. After seven I am an arsehole.

After nine hours Mycroft declares the investigation over for today, referring to Mary's physical state but looking at me the way he did when I was five. I start complaining instantly, but he watches me unimpressed. Then he presses something into my hand. “Go home, Sherlock,” he says patronizingly, but there is a little smile hidden in his eyes. I look at what he has given me. The keys to 221b. I hate when I am speechless because Mycroft does something heart-warming.

“You will be watched officially, and not allowed to leave London,” he explains, “but otherwise free to do whatever is necessary to solve the 'Moriarty Enigma'” As if I would leave London voluntarily. And how does he know I am calling the case the Moriarty Enigma in my head? Anyway. The thought of going home, of finally going home eases my mind instantly. I can even feel my shoulders relaxing, and there is a smile on my face I cannot hide. Happily (yes, I have to admit it, I am happy) I turn around and look at John - 

\- who is helping Mary into her coat. Of course he will go home with her and not with me. She is heavily pregnant, and his safety depends on her believing everything is all right with their marriage. They will go home together, and I will be alone.

It is very hard not to let my disappointment show. Saying goodbye takes four minutes, and every muscle of my face is strained afterwards. The feeling inside my chest is nearly the same. Only worse.

A cab takes me home. I look out of the window so I don't have to look at the empty seat next to me. I try to tell myself to be happy. Only this morning I was prepared to leave John and England for good and face my certain death. Now all I am facing is an empty chair in an empty flat.

Soon the cabs stops, and I am standing in front of my home. I remind myself that the loneliness is only temporarily. Mary will give birth soon, and then John will be here and GraceNotEmilia and I will probably be longing for a moment of loneliness. But tonight, I cannot stop thinking of John helping Mary into her coat. Such a small domestic gesture. So John.

At the bottom of the stairs I hesitate. I simply cannot face the empty flat right now. So instead I knock on Mrs Hudson's door. Try to remember if I ever did that before, simply to enjoy her company. Surely not. 

She is as surprised as I am. She fusses over how thin I am and how sad I look and feeds me. She asks me many clever questions about the Moriarty Enigma. She shares some of her herbal soothers with me, and soon we are both lying on her carpet, listening to her swing records. I tell her at length how much I love John and why, and she pats my hand and my back and my cheek. She is so much better at that than I am.

When I finally go upstairs, I still feel John-less. But I feel loved.


	11. Chapter 11

The second day at Mycroft's base is even worse that the first. This time it takes me only six hours to go from enthusiast to arsehole. 

I have spent three weeks in almost complete isolation. My senses are completely overwhelmed now. I try to stay calm, really, but the constant buzzing and bustling around of Mycroft's minions is scratching on my nerves. It leaves a residue inside my brain. When I am (sent) home (by my ridiculous brother), I can still hear it. Feel it. 

I try to drown it in violin music, but fail. My brain feels like swimming in an ocean of remembered murmurs and whispers and trampling and mobile ring tones and mobile message tones and the clacking of keyboards and and the rustling of newspapers. 

I try to lie on the sofa and think of something nice (John. Always John.), but my inner Mary sneaks her way into my thoughts and ruins it. Just like the real one did at Mycroft's base. 

Finally, I quit and go to bed. But the busy buzzing follows me into my nightmare. It is not a spectacularly scary nightmare or a very inventive one. In my nightmare, I am in my mind palace. In a nightmarish version of it, that is. I am unfamiliar with the rooms. The wall paper is too bright, the furniture too colourful, the carpet too flamboyant.

And no matter where I go, I can always hear the noises I tried to ignore all day. They grow louder and louder in every room I enter. In the last room I enter, I am afraid of losing my hearing, so loud is the buzzing. There is a gun placed on a cushion. (John's gun.) I know that all I have to do to end the (irritating maddening resounding) noise is to fire the gun.

But when I take it into my hand, all colours around me turn to red. The same deep red I have seen dripping out of Magnussen's temple. My heartbeat speeds up, and (again) I feel like I cannot breathe. I want to fire the gun, but my hands are sweating and my pulse is erratic and my vision is blurring and something horrible will happen when I pull the trigger. 

I wake up with the ring of the shot echoing in my mind (once more), sweat drenching my sheets. My brain is still vibrating from the noise. My body feels like I ran a marathon in my sleep, every single muscle is tense.

When Mycroft's car picks me up, I feel like hiding rather than going back to the pitfall of noise and activity.

This time, the transformation from enthusiast to arsehole happens within five hours. The noise and the endless activity around me is still haunting me. When I finally manage to reduce it to background noise, I nearly clash with Mary. 

She finds me when I managed to find a quiet spot (in the kitchenette after chasing away two minions by loudly deducing their pitiful sex life). (Her timing surely no coincidence.) Tells me how glad she is that I am allowed to stay in London (for now). Touches my arm to feign sympathy. Pretends to be happy for John and me. 

I feel the need to peel my skin off of my body with my fingernails in order to prevent me from calling Mary a lying cunt.

Then John enters and her demeanour changes ever so subtle. Becomes possessive. Kisses John. Touches her baby belly. Places her hand on his arm and thereby pushing him away from me. (Only 1.4 inches, but still.) Stands between us.

My mind starts spinning out of control. Does she know? Does she guess? She is good. Very good. And astute. But she cannot know. Can she? Is she just demonstrating that John is hers? Is she warning us not to get started? Does she tell us to stop?

Am I giving us away right now with my (childish stupid dangerous total) panic?

The air has become fluid, hanging inside my lungs heavily, turning every breath into a challenge. I barely see John's concerned face. Sweat dropping into my eyes. Burning. 

“Too loud” I shout, scream, yell, in a desperate attempt to hide the true reason of my whatever-it-is. “Everybody is thinking too loud!”

They buy it. John is concerned, Mary pretends to be concerned, they tell Mycroft, and ten minutes later I am sitting inside the car that will take me home early once more.

Tonight's nightmare finds me standing on a well-kept (very English) lawn. The sky above me is blue, the sun shining, birds singing in the trees, the temperature just right. A perfect day. In front of me a tomb stone. I know that I should not look at it, should rather walk away, for as long as do not look at it is not real. But I look, and I read (“John H. Watson” it says, and below “GraceNotEmilia Watson”), and for a moment I forget that it is a dream.

I wake up because I am crying so hard that my pillow is wet and I am choking on saliva and tears.

Three hours into the next day at the base, I lash out at John in such an unforgivable manner that I instantly delete everything except the shame I feel afterwards and the hurt look in his eyes.

At that point it becomes clear to us all that I cannot work like this. Forty-six minutes later I am at home, installing Mycroft's super secret software on my laptop to keep in touch with the operations base.

Of course I am alone, for John stays with his charming, pregnant, non-lashing out, patient wife. I can barely concentrate on the data in front of me. We have been able to exchange two stolen kisses over the course of the four days. Way too few. I miss three calls from the base while thinking of kissing him.

I work until my brain is so tired that I can risk going to sleep without thinking of John and Mary (lying in bed side by side). Does not work. Why is it bothering me that much? I know that John loves me. I know he is with Mary to protect GraceNotEmilia. Because I told him to. And yet …

And yet I cannot stop tossing and turning until I finally fall asleep just before dawn.

* * *

When I get up in the morning, my flat is full of people who are working on the Moriarty Enigma. Not only John and Mary and Mycroft and the inevitable Anthea, but also Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson. I am caught completely by surprise. 

They look at me when I enter my living room, and all activity comes to a halt. "With so many of you here I am sure there is at least one who has time to make me some tea," I say, unimpressed and walk into the bathroom as gracefully as a naked man can.

John is still smirking when I return, now dressed. (Love how the purple shirt still makes his pupils dilate.) The little laughter lines around his eyes make my heart lose about two pounds of weight, and before long I am finally deeply concentrating on the Enigma.

I am concentrated so hard that I don't hear the door bell. But it must have rung, for Mrs Hudson makes a big fuss about opening the door and why should one of the younger ones move down the stairs instead of her? I concur, but telling her so seems to be a bad idea. When she comes back, she is followed by -

Janine.

“Hi, Sherl!” she says, smiling unobtrusively, and adds “Hi, gang!” She embraces me, and John's mood drops, instantly. Luckily, Mary is busy staring at Janine in a peculiar way and therefore misses her husband's reaction altogether. (He really needs to be more careful. Just like me.) Mycroft discreetly turns all laptop screens around to hide the operation from her.

“I need your help, Sherl,” she tells me after I have led her into the kitchen, her hand still resting on my arm. 

According to John, I still owe her something despite the cottage. “Your timing is a bit unfortunate,” I start, but Janine interrupts me instantly.

“You still owe me something despite the cottage,” she says, and I cannot argue with her without being contradictory with John. Who pretends not to listen to our conversation, like everybody else. So Janine and I settle at the kitchen table, and she starts explaining, “Someone is trying to gaslight me. Drive me insane,” she adds when I don't react. (How very 19th century. I must admit that the idea is slightly intriguing. Mycroft draws a face, which only makes it more intriguing for me.)

“My brother died some time ago,” she goes on, “Four weeks ago I suddenly got a text signed with his name. It was a mobile number I didn't know, and when I called it, nobody answered.” (Well, that is not a very elegant way to drive someone insane. Easy to fake. Boring.)

“The texts became more and more personal, including stuff only he could have written.” (A bit less boring, but still easy to fake. Too often people overestimate the discreetness of family members.) “Then I received letters, written in his handwriting.” (A bit more elaborate, but still too easy to fake to be truly interesting.)

“Why would someone try to drive you insane?” I interrupt Janine's stream of words to see if maybe the motive turns out to be interesting. She sighs.

“Family business,” she says, and when I fail to show an appropriate reaction she explains, “My father left my brother his Blue Book. It's a collection of business contacts, some of his strategies explained, dirty secrets of our rivals, that kind of stuff.” She pulls a face, and Molly looks at her in silent understanding. (Her family wanted her to become a primary school teacher, like all women in the family). “When my brother died, it was handed over to me, just like my father wished. Not that I want to have it. Thank you, Dad.” She crinkles her nose. 

(Business information usually make a less interesting motive that love. But maybe I can do her the favour and investigate a little without boring myself to death when I have the time.) “I will need to take a look at this Blue Book,” I explain the obvious (just to be nice). 

She nods, “Of course. I'll get it from it's safety deposit box at the notary. Better come with me then, I feel so much safer when you're around, Sherl!” (Is she still flirting? It's an activity that seems to come naturally to her. John frowns. Better get back to safe ground.)

“So” I sum her case up, “you received texts and letters from your dead brother and want me to ...”

“And voice mails,” Janine interrupts me once more. (Forgot how annoying that was. But voice mails make the fraud a tiny bit more interesting.) “At first it sounded like a voice computer faking my brother’s voice,” she elaborates. “But after a while it sounded exactly like him. And it was interacting with me, answering questions and stuff, like a real person.”

“Is there any chance your brother is in fact still alive?” I ask (just to rule out the impossible), and she shakes her head vehemently.

“No way, Sherl. He's dead. Definitely.” (It sounds like a nice little case now. Maybe it is something John would enjoy, he is a romantic at heart and would feel like some 19th century novel character.)

“And just when I convinced myself that someone was imitating his voice, I received a video clip,” she goes on, and now it becomes obvious that behind her flirtatious easy-going façade she really is scared. “Sherl, it was him. But … older. Some new wrinkles, a few grey streaks. Seeing him was …“ She is clearly fighting for composure now. (And I can no longer resist the urge to help. She was right at the hospital, we could have been friends. Well, maybe it is not too late for that.)

“I' will need the texts and the letters.” I say, and she starts to work on her mobile instantly. Good girl. “And you will have to send me that video.”

“Oh,” she says, without looking up from her mobile, “I'm sure you have seen it already. It was broadcasted nation-wide four days ago.” 

The silence in the flat that follows is one of the best stunned silences I have ever been part of.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Let's call it "summer slump".
> 
> Special thanks to tonnaree for helping out as beta once more. If you haven't done so already, go and read her poems. They are wonderful.
> 
> Please note the additional tags. They have to do with sex. :-)

The silence stretches for a while. Finally, Janine looks up from her mobile and gives everybody an apologetic smile. “Sorry if I'm keeping you from something important.”

Mycroft (of course) is the first to recover from the surprise. He starts sending messages from his mobile quietly while his mind is (apparently) racing. (And I am so relieved that he is surprised, because if he is, it is no shame that I am, too.)

Mary is the first to speak. “You never told me,” she says, in her own special way meant to show vulnerability but only comes out accusing. (Face pale, hands shaking, eyes wide open. Scared.)

“Oh please, dear,” Janine smiles sweetly, “don't worry. If I had had any intentions of making you pay for what you did to Jimmy you would have paid already.” She goes to Mary and gives her a friendly hug, “Oh my, you are VERY pregnant now.” Then her eyes fall onto one of the laptops. There is (real? Surely not. Very well faked) realisation on her face, “Oh Mikey, you were working on that clip already. Did you think it was meant for Sherl?”

The question hangs in the air, further bruising my ego. Because yes, of course we did. “Oops,” Janine goes, looking even more apologetic now. Comes back to me to pad my back. “Hope your ego survives that blow.” She grins now, and I remember why faking a relationship with her has not been as unpleasant as it could have been. 

“It is wounded, but will recover,” I sigh, and lead her back to the kitchen table. “About that Blue Book ...”

It turns out that this Book is a very effective life insurance. Containing extremely valuable information on the criminal upper class, it is stored at a reliable notary. Should Janine not die of natural causes, parts of it will be published, exposing several secrets that should better be left in the dark. 

“But if I'd go nuts like Jimmy,” she explains, “it would be destroyed. Daddy's way of telling me to pull myself together, I think.” So that is why someone is trying to gaslight her. 

We spend some time debating who could have both a motive and access to the technical know-how. John and Mary join us. I can see how glad John is that he can finally contribute something. (So glad that he does not even frown every time Mary contradicts him just to keep him at bay.) Janine notices that, her (minimal) reactions telling me that she knows how it feels to be rebuked by Mary in front of others. 

In the end, there are four people left. Four potential culprits. All with very different motives. 

I open a new room in my mind palace for this part of the case. (A copy of the open plan office of Sebastian Wilkes' bank, re-decorated with a nice carpet and an interesting wallpaper. Chose this because back then I thought I had to impress John so he would like me a little. Avoided thinking about it for a long time, but now that he loves me I can gloriously return there.)

I give each of the culprits their own part of the office where I store information on them. In working place number one there is Thomas G. Hanson, London's betting king who holds a personal grudge against Janine. “He is angry because I used him for work for a while,” Janine explains.

“What kind of work was that?” John wonders, and Janine gives him the cutest smile.

“Con artist.”

Which explains how she could play along so nicely when I faked our relationship (rather amateurishly). “Don't worry, you did quite well,” she tries to reassure me and pads my arm once again. “But next time you try to be convincing, you should really have sex. I always do that.” (Love how John's face tells me not to.) (Good for us that Mary is looking at Janine at that moment.)

At working place two there is Evelyn Montamar. “She is trying to raise a criminal empire like ours for years now,” Janine explains, “Only restrains herself because of what is written about her in Dad's Blue Book. With me dead or admitted, the last obstacle would be overcome.” (I have never heard about her. Really need to talk about that with Mycroft. What else might we be unaware of?)

At working place three there is Benjamin Jesterton. Former business partner, ended the liaison when it turned out that they were aiming at different goals. “I never wanted to have much to do with the family business,” Janine explains, “only needed the Blue Book to get a good head start with the con artist thingy, and to keep some of the big fish at bay.” 

Jesterton, on the other hand had had big plans to take over Daddy Moriarty's network. “The Work has turned daddy into a grumpy, distrustful old man and drove Jimmy insane,” she tells us, with (honest) sadness in her voice. “I vowed to myself not to be infected by it long before Jimmy blew his brains away.”

At that, she gives me a sad little smile and pads my arm once more, “I'm not blaming you for his death, Sherl. He was completely obsessed with you, and a danger to the whole family with him being round the bend that much. If it hadn't been you, someone else would have taken him down pretty soon.”

(Not sure how I feel about that, so I store it in the back of my mind to look at it again later.)

At working place four there is Elisabeth J. Farnsworth. Congress member with criminal family background kept secret and a few side tracks herself. Should the content of the Blue Book become known, her political career would be over within the second. (That at least I have known before.)

It is those four then. Mycroft joins us in the kitchen, gets the names and starts to do some more research instantly. Mary, on the other hand, has been touching her belly from time to time. “False labour,” John says and hushes her into my bedroom. (False labour means she is getting closer to giving birth. Can still take another two or three weeks, but it is the first step. My hands are (just slightly) wet, my heart (mildly) racing. GraceNotEmilia will soon be reality. Need to solve Janine's case soon, for otherwise I will not be able to stay in London and John will be left alone with the baby. And Mary. Unacceptable.)

I am so lost in thoughts that I don't realize that Janine and I are alone in the kitchen all of sudden. She gives me a piercing glance I try to ignore (without success). “Oh Sherl,” she says then, patting my back happily (which gets really annoying), “you and John? Finally!” She gives me a conspiratorial grin and another pat on my cheek. “I mean, really, there is nothing wrong with a little marginal shag with someone else's husband now and then, is there?”

Her comment does something funny to my body. On the one hand, the thought of shagging John (Lord, has it really been that long?) sends a wave of arousal through my loins, leaving a burning feeling I can barely ignore. The thought of someone believing it to me marginal, on the other hand, sends a cold shiver through my chest. Both feelings mix in my belly and the result renders me immobile.

Out of the corners of my eyes I see Janine tensing up. Her eyes sad, she reaches for my face again. She cups my cheek this time, strokes it with her thumbs. “Sherl, no,” she says, “something serious?” She watches my face attentively. Shakes her head a little.

“He loves me,” I blurt out, not really understanding why I feel the need to defend our relationship. 

The sadness reaches her eyes now, “I don't begrudge you of it.” She moves even closer, and whispers, “But no matter how cute the two of you are together Sherl, what is happening is this: John is cheating on his pregnant wife and you will steal her child.”

I want to tell her that the cheating is necessary to protect John, that GraceNotEmilia will be better off with us than with her murderous mother. But the words get caught in my throat. But that does not mean she is right. She is not right. No no no.

“I am not judging you two,” Janine says quietly, “but one day, John will. He is doing something WRONG, you know, and sooner or later that will catch up with him. All I'm saying is that you need to be prepared for that.”

With that, she turns and leaves me standing in the kitchen alone. Just me and my misery.

* * *

No matter what I do, I cannot shake off the discomforting feeling of forcing John to do something WRONG. (Neither can I shake the arousal.) I fail to concentrate on the case, miss an obvious trail (as Mycroft feels obliged to tell me twice) and finally retreat into the kitchen to prepare tea. There, I break a cup and cut my finger.

It is bleeding rather spectacularly, and John has to take me into the bathroom to treat me. Places me on the toilet so I won't swoon. While he holds my finger up in the air, I allow my head to lean against John's waist. It is soft and warm and safe and John. I block out the pain in my finger as good as I can, concentrating only on my body touching his.

“It is only a flesh wound, no serious damage done,” I hear John's (comforting doctor's) voice.

“Of course not,” I huff. I have given it a lot of thought beforehand, after all. His waist tenses. (Unpleasant.)

“Sherlock, you didn't ...” 

But of course I did. Threw another WRONG in his way. To get some time with him alone, and to see how much WRONG from me he can stand. I wish I could find the words to explain. “I've missed you,” I whisper into his waist instead.

Underneath my forehead I can feel his belly softening again. His hands, now done treating my finger, find their way into my hair. (He loves that.) “I've missed you too,” he says softly. “You know that, don't you?” I nod. Close my eyes when one of his hands move down my neck to stay on my back, slowly rubbing it. Finally let go of the breath I must have been holding for three weeks now.

He rubs my back for a long time. When he steps back a little to look at me, he has to grin. “Lord, Sherlock, you really need to think about sick puppies or cold showers or something.” I follow his glance down to my pelvis. Apparently the arousal has not subsided along with the tension. He laughs quietly (that wonderful laughter that always reaches his eyes and his soul). “I can't let you walk out with a boner like that,” he grins.

True, there is a burning in my lower body, closer to pain than to pleasure. Pure, physical need mixed with emotional craving. And John is right, the result is clearly visible. I am sure that I flush, for I am more than ashamed of my uncontrollable body. But John (understanding glorious hot John) smiles at me as if my obvious arousal was the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"I'll think of something sobering" I promise. But John has other plans. ( That grin. Oh that grin alone sends little shock waves through my body. ) He presses his index finger against my lips and whispers, "Hush, love, not a sound." His other hand has already freed my (fully erect) penis. (No idea how.)

The touch if his (cool) hands against my (hot needing) erection only intensifies the burning. Spreads it. I moan silently. Slowly, very very slowly (but strong) John pulls back my foreskin, as far as possible. Then he applies pressure, squeezes, does not let go. That does not relieve any tension at all, only makes me want it more. My legs go rigid and my head falls back. I'm sweating already.

He does not move his hand, just holds it in place, and my hips start moving involuntarily. Only that with my foreskin pulled back and the flushing tank of the toilet in my back and John in front of me there is nearly no space for them to move. What was burning need when he started is pain now that erases everything else from my brain. (Bliss.)

He finally, finally lets go, but only to repeat what he did. I think my arms are flailing, my hands finding some part of John's body (arm? back?) and I grip him hard.

After some agonizing seconds he lets go again, and now my hips find some space and I am fucking his hand (frantically). My genius lover picks up the rhythm my hips are seeking, and after only a few steady strokes there is relief pulsing through my body. (Goes on and on and on.)

My body goes from jerking to trembling, my hands slip from whatever part of John it was that they were clinging to. My brain is still not online again. I feel entirely boneless and would surely melt to the ground if it weren't for John to hold me and rock me and whisper words without meaning into my ear.

It takes several deep (silent) breaths before I become fully aware of the world again. (How I managed to remain silent all the time eludes me.) I should be sticky but am not. The solution: my genius lover has caught most of my come with a towel. (Without me noticing. A technique surely learnt in the army.)

Finally I find the strength (and courage) to look into his eyes. Should feel awkward but doesn't (because it's John). He smiles at me, sweetly and lovingly (as if he had not pushed me into a short painful brain- numbing orgasm just now). Caresses my curls, presses innocent kisses on my face. My head lolls forward to rest against his belly once more. ( Right where it was when we started. Full circle.) I bury my face and love him for a while.

All too soon he gently pushes me back. "We need to come out of the bathroom soon," he says (softly with regret). A glance at the clock shows me that the whole thing has only taken four minutes.

I can only nod. "I'll go first and tell them you are down with your nerves," my genius lover tells me. Brilliant plan. That gives me some time to pull myself together, wipe that post-orgasmic smile from my face (grinning like an idiot now), re-arrange my hair and my trousers and my mind. I nod again.

Open my mouth, but fail to find words. Close it again. Look at John. Does he (once again) know what it is I am not saying? Of course. He has already been at the door but comes back and whispers, "I love you too."

Then he is gone, and I am still grinning like a fool.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay. Baby Schmiezi does not require that much sleep any longer. This is wonderful, but also time consuming. ;-)  
> Tomorrow I start working full-time again, with Baby Schmiezi and Mr Schmiezi staying at home. It is rather likely that the next chapters will take some time to come online.   
> Thank you for everybody who read on anyway. I'll do my best to hurry a little. Probably have my pupils working quietly a lot so I can sketch the next chapter. :-)))

Of course Mycroft deduces what happened in the bathroom but does not say a word. (Not that he needs to, his face is talking about his disdain loud enough.)

Janine also knows (but won't mention it to Mary. Many little hints in her behaviour tell me that somehow, some time ago Mary got the wrong side of Janine. Interesting. Need to investigate further.)

Mary sleeps for another two hours, and when she comes back into the living room, I am finally able to control my manic grin. The fact that John immediately switches to concerned husband makes it easy. 

Now that the Moriarty Enigma has become less enigmatic, investigations proceed well. At least inside my head. Am not a team player, so I ignore everybody and consider our options of how to go on from here. When I am finished with determining new markers and made the necessary changes on my evidence wall, I am alone in the flat. Not an extraordinary incident, but the thought of John leaving without my noticing bothers me.

Problem: cannot simply text him and apologize. (Mary secretly reads his texts.) Need to rephrase it. So instead of saying sorry I ask about Mary's well being. The content of the text is irrelevant anyway. Only need to know how fast John answers to know if he is understanding or angry. Answer comes twenty-three seconds later. (Understanding!)

Relieved, I decide to go to bed. So many nights with nightmares have left me more tired that I care to admit. The second I lie down, I realize that Mary's smell is on the pillows and the duvet and the sheets. Wish it was John's smell. I could lie for hours and just smell John. Did that when he was living here again, before moving back to her.

Did that also long before he knew I love him. Had to sneak up into his bedroom and always remember to rearrange the sheets of his bed when leaving again.

But now Mary is everywhere. How symbolic. Think of how she has rested here, body swollen and tired, while John was giving me a wank in the bathroom. Try to feel boastful and victorious, but only manage to feel offended by the lingering of her smell.

Tiredness pulls me into pre-sleep soon enough. My body struck down with exhaustion, my mind uncontrollably racing. A dreadful state of mind. There is genius lurking in my thoughts when I'm like this. There is also madness lurking.

Tonight, it is genius. After mere seconds, the Moriarty Enigma partly unravels with new clarity, and I realize a fundamental mistake with my markers. There is no way I am going to heave my body out of bed again, so instead I conjure up the evidence wall inside my mind palace. It is placed in a room that looks just like our (mine? our!) living room here in Baker Street, only that there is a lot of John's stuff lying around. (Remember briefly how I realized years ago how much it meant to me that John's stuff was spread everywhere. Meant that he lived here. Meant that he liked being with me.)

But Mary's smell invades my mind palace, and before long, my inner Mary appears, t-shirt with arrow, fake smile and all. “Sherlock,” she says, admiration in her voice, “I am so impressed at how well your mind is working on the case while John is sharing a bed with me.”

All thoughts about the case shatter instantly. My stomach reduced to a hard ball of dread. Damn it. Damn her. Damn the situation. Damn my insecurity. If only …

“Maybe you are over-estimating the threat your real self is to him,” another voice counters. My inner John. 

(Mildly surprised at his appearance. Usually he serves to discuss theories and leads with me. Well, discuss. To be brutally honest, I need him to listen to my theories in awe.)

Today, my subconsciousness has other plans with him. He swiftly steps by my side and places a possessive hand on my shoulder. (Always love that in real life.) Inner Mary looks like she is ready to murder any one of us, but before she can answer, he goes on, “Maybe he knows exactly that my real self is longing to be with him right now.” (Do I know?)

Mary opens her mouth again, but inner John interjects once more, delivers the final blow, “Or is real me doing that to real you right now, Mary?” Before I can even wonder what my mind has in mind now, he grabs me by my shoulders, pulls me close and kisses me. Hard and ruthless. Were we real, I would have bruises on my shoulders soon. 

Would love to take a boastful look at inner Mary now, but inner John's hand wanders into my hair and pulls, strong, steady. It hurts, but brilliantly so. Fixes my head so I am helplessly at his mercy. He assaults my lips forcefully, leaves a harsh stubble burn on my cheeks, leaves my legs wobbly with desire. 

“Oh please,” I hear inner Mary snorting, “is that all there is inside your mind, Sherlock? A funny little kinky kiss? I always thought ...” I never get to hear the rest of the sentence, for inner Mary's voice dies when John yanks me around, presses me against the evidence wall.

“So, this is how you want it sometimes?” he asks, a bit amused, and forces his tongue inside my mouth before I can answer. Yes, God yes. I gasp for air, my scalp tingling, my back burning. Briefly wonder what my real body is doing right now, because inner me is hard as can be.

Real John gets rough sometimes, but only in the heat of passion. Never controlled like that. He has never caused me pain on purpose. I never told him how I am longing to ask him for it sometimes. “Pants down,” inner John orders in his Baskerville facility command voice. My body obeys without hesitation. While I get rid of my trousers, inner John strips me off my shirt, and within seconds I am naked in front of him. 

He smirks at my erection and grabs my balls. Mirrors what inner Mary did to me once, on the rooftop, but this time it fills me with pleasure and pain and ecstasy. “No cuddling this time, pretty boy,” he hisses into my ear and kisses me again. Then, while one of his hands is still holding a streak of my curls, the other moves down my throat to my chest and pinches one of my nipples. Hard.

I close my eyes and cannot help but groan, feral, deep. Only groaned like that once in real life. Made John come instantly. Not inner John. He just smiles, that dangerous mischievous smile.

When I open my eyes again, the room has changed. Boring decent wallpaper, boring decent carpet, boring decent plants in front of boring decent curtains. It takes me a second to realize we're in John's and Mary's bedroom. Where real John is lying by his wife's side right now. The utmost symbol of that I've nearly lost him for good.

Wonder if I should be ashamed of the fact that this arouses me further. No time to contemplate. For inner John (when did he get naked?) is still completely in charge. “Down” he commands, and pushes me onto the bed before I can obey. 

I am so hard now that I wonder if I will come instantly the next time he touches me anywhere. “Don't you dare” he murmurs and starts sucking my throat. Would leave incredible love bites in reality. Am I still breathing? No idea. 

Feel my body squirming. Can't stop it, am beyond control and loving it. All of sudden, he jerks my hair again so that my head is turned to the left. Inner Mary is standing there, watching us in speechless outrage. God, how much more aroused can I get before dying of heart attack? “She will watch us until the end,” inner John explains. Now, please, now now now.

Try to breath and fail. Try to control my flailing arms and fail. Try to find words and fail. 

He is sucking my throat again, and at the same time spreads my legs. Real John is too small to … Again, thought is lost, as I realize that inner John is not going to spend too much time on opening me. Try to swallow and fail. Within less than a minute he is inside me, hard and big and oh yes oh yes.

His hand is still holding on to my curls, and every thrust of his hips moves my helpless body forward a bit and pulls at the root of my hair and sends waves of pain and lust through my head. Feel boneless and thoughtless and helpless and fearless and if he stops now I will loose my mind.

Feel John (inner John! Inner John!) shift his body slightly and then touch my penis without breaking the rhythm of the overwhelming thrusts. Think my head bumps against the ridiculous head-rest of their bed but am not sure. Am screaming now, body stiffening, arching, leaning deeper and deeper into the thrusting, wanting it wanting him wanting it nownownownow -

Heat pulsating, body slackening, brain burnt out. Panting. Sweat on my skin. Spent. Used. Fucked senseless.

And John (INNER JOHN!) slowly descending to the bed, laying next to me, becoming warm and loving and caring again, takes me into his arms, murmurs words of admiration into my ears, and before I can even think of leaving my mind palace I am falling asleep. Fuming inner Mary the last (wonderful) thing I see.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for being late once more. Real life and stuff, you know? Thanks for your patience. :-)

I wake up in the morning, tangled up in my sheets, my skin sticky with cold sweat and come. Cuddling my pillow. A strange feeling in my stomach, a mixture of satisfaction and loneliness and happiness and guilt. Makes me hurry to get under the shower, for in this state of mine I do not feel like facing Team Sherlock naked again.

When the hot water is raining down on me, I try to sort it all out. What happened is that I had fantastic sex. But not with John. But only in my mind. Should I feel guilty? But it was too good to regret it. Should I feel happy? But it was too kinky. And not with John. I cannot make up my mind. Is there something like too kinky anyway?

I spend an extra amount of time with dressing and styling, feeling the need to be in perfect armour today. Use the after shave John loves the most. Make sure every single curl is where I want it to be. Especially the ones that looks like errants. White shirt, black jacket. Perfection (on the outside). Ready to face the world. 

In the living room, Mycroft is already busy making changes on my evidence wall. (Same ones I made mentally last night. Telling him that will make me sound like a petulant child.) I stretch my back (involuntarily) which makes him smile (damn) and I open my mouth to discuss the markers with him. “Oh, how kinky was it?” he asks instead, throws that pesky little half-grin at me and watches me simmer when the door opens and the Watson's entrance makes it impossible for me to answer.

All I can do is glare at my brother. It's incredible how much you can hate someone you love.

Mary is in a crappy mood (perfectly normal for a woman in her situation), John is irritated by her crappy behaviour (perfectly normal for the husband of a woman in her situation) and I am holding myself so upright that my back starts hurting after two hours. 

Finally, Mycroft takes pity in me. He makes a few calls from my bedroom and comes out, smiling even more pesky than before. “I need you to do some legwork for me, little brother,” he tells me. (Pretending that I am doing him a favour while he is doing me a favour). 

“Why would I do that?” I challenge him, pretending not to notice that he is doing me a favour. He offers me the chance to get away from the flat by seeing Elisabeth J. Farnsworth, one of the suspects Janine had mentioned. We banter for a while until Mary (who, unlike John, understands that it is just make-believe) explodes.

“Christ, Sherlock, just leave”, she spits. Her face does a funny thing immediately afterwards. A wild mixture of false calamity and true anger. Mary, always trying to maintain control, but in the end as much at the mercy of her hormones as every other pregnant woman. She hates it, I can see that clearly, and she is fighting hard to remain in control of her mood.

I cannot help thinking how much we have in common, and wonder how our relationship would have developed had she not turned out to be what she is.

Then I realize how to exploit her current state. “All right, I will do the leg work for you,” I (pretend to) growl at Mycroft, “but I need John with me.” Mary, caught between being angry about everything and trying to appear at ease with the world, has no choice but let him go with me without comment. We are out of the door and inside a cab faster than ever before.

I sit down, and John subconsciously reaches for my hand. A gesture so small and circumstantial it breaks my heart and fills my soul. I don't move, don't breath, just watch him caressing the back of my hand with his thumb. Then he looks at me, a little smile on his lips. Little, but reaching his (wonderful) eyes, lightening them. Watch his tongue darting over his (wonderful) lips (unconsciously). He will kiss me in less than ten seconds. And I want it, so badly and desperately. Lean towards him, watch him close his eyes, stretch his neck, and hear him whisper, “I love your lips.”

A perfect moment. Absolutely perfect. 

Until I open my mouth and blurt out, “I think I cheated on you, but I'm not sure.”

Incredible how fast you can destroy a perfect moment.

John stares at me in bewilderment. I can see the wheels inside his brain turning, before he asks, “When?”

Really, that is what concerns him most? Well, at least the answer to that is easy, “Yesterday night.” 

Confusion on his face. The wheels turning some more. “What do you mean, you're not sure?” he wants to know then. That is a better question, but I refrain from telling him so. He is always a bit huffy when I give him advice during a quarrel. 

“It was inside my mind palace,” I explain. Funny how my pulse speeds up. Will he be angry? If I only knew if I did something wrong. Usually I consult John to find it out. Well, if it was indeed wrong, he will surely tell me so soon. Probably not with a quiet voice. I squirm within.

He is still trying to comprehend. “So, you had a … what? A sex fantasy about someone else?”

“Not with someone else,” I clarify. “With you. Well, inner you, that is.” He is a bit slow at getting it, I cannot help but think. 

He nods (slowly). “Okay,” he says, “all right.” He nods again. 

“Is that all right?” I have to ask, because I fail to read his expression. (Hate when that happens.)

He smirks a bit. “Yes, sure, it is all right.” A pause, then, “Was it better than sex with real me?”

Oh, sometimes he can be so dense. “Of course it was better than with you,” I explain patiently. And watch his expression shift from amusement to bewilderment to disbelief within a micro second. Oh, maybe I should have approached that a bit less clumsy. Need to elaborate to appease him.

“Don't be insulted,” I go on. “It was only better because it was ...” How do I put it? Ah, yes, “...because it was not with you.” 

There, that should do it. I smile at him, glad the whole thing is settled, and am taken completely by surprise by the befuddled glare he gives me. “What?” I have to ask when he just stares at me for seconds. My pulse speeds up again. He is angry. Is he angry? He looks angry, open mouth, rigid back, cheeks flushed. Need an apology, fast. Think!

That is exactly when his mobile rings. You have to admire Mary's timing. She tells him something I cannot hear, and John pales. “Oh my God,” he says, “how often? - What? You need to – Yes, yes, good. Which one? - I'll be there.” He hangs up. Stops the cab and is already halfway out of the door when he (unnecessarily) explains, “The contractions started. She's at the hospital, I need to go there.”

With that he jumps out of our cab, catches another one and is gone.

Without telling me which hospital she's at. Or asking me to join him. 

I guess he really is angry then.

###

Congress member Farnsworth is an elderly woman that was hot once and is stylishly attractive now. Short grey hair dyed brown, jewellery a lot more expensive than it looks. Sleeps with at least three of the men that are bowing and scraping around her, and with two of the women. Is in love with the one she does not have sex with. Likes me. The feeling is mutual. Too bad we are basically standing on different sides. But that cannot be helped. 

Concentrating on Farnsworth is difficult. Especially after I deduced that she is innocent. Took me eight minutes. But she keeps on talking. Tells me something about honour among thieves and really believes in it. When she asks me if she is boring me, I say yes.

Funny enough she only laughs at it. Pats my hand and continues to bore me. It takes an eternity to politely finish my investigation in her home. Once outside I check my mobile for messages from John. Nothing.

It takes me twelve minutes to admit to myself that I am hurt. Because John is so angry with me that he left without another word. And because I am excluded. And I am nervous, because GraceNotEmilia might be born right now. And because I still don't know if John is angry.

Back home I tell Mycroft to arrange a meeting with the next suspect as soon as possible and then I hush Team Sherlock out of 221b. Then I wait for news from the hospital.

And wait. 

And wait.

Incredible how much you can worry in only two hours. 

Then, finally, when it is already dark outside, a text. “False alarm,” it says, “Back home now and completely exhausted.”

I am not sure what to make of it. There is way too much unused adrenalin in my blood and too many dark thoughts on my mind. Realize how I often felt this way before John. Used to take drugs, or work myself into exhaustion or worse. That is no longer an option, so I do the only thing that really helps me in a state like that. I turn to John.

Text him that I hope the baby is all right anyway. Then write another text to add that I also hope he is all right, too. Then I remember that Mary checks his texts. So I write another text to add that I hope she is all right too. Then I text him again, telling him cryptographically secured that I miss him. Then things get a little out of hands.

Ten minutes and thirty-eight sent texts later, my mobile rings. John. Can hear soft breeze and his footsteps that echo on a wet pavement that is still slightly covered with sand (from a construction side). “Why are you walking down Bedford Gardens?” I ask, not really the most pressing question on my mind. But it is John I am talking to. No matter how angry he might be, he will know that what I am really saying is, “I miss you”, “I am sorry.” and “Are we all right?”

He laughs, gentle and soft. (The laugh reserved for brilliant deductions.) “Mary knows that I go for a walk when I am too excited to sleep. Perfect cover to give you a call without her listening.” There is no anger in his voice, but he is tired.

“Are you angry with be because I had fantastic sex with inner you?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. 

He laughs again, “Of course not. Why would I?” Relief floods my body, and I will never admit that the loss of tensions makes my knees give in. I sit down on (sink down on / crash onto) my chair. “But,” he goes on, “I really want to know what inner John did to leave you so satisfied.” The idea of talking about it sends a strange feeling right to my balls. 

“All right,” I say (gasp), half-hard already. 

Then I hear his footsteps come to a halt. “We need to talk about how to go on with Mary and the baby,” he says then, voice serious, yet loving. “It can happen any time now, and today I thought ...” 

His voice trails off, leaving much space for interpretation. I wonder if I should tell him how I felt today, left out and cut off of information. Before I can make up my mind, he goes on, “I … missed you at the hospital. I know it is not fair, and Mary has no idea what's going on, and she is the mother, and it will break her heart, but … she can't have my girl, Sherlock. She is evil and she has killed … she is … she will never … I am scared and … you know.”

Yes, I know. 

“I have already talked to Mycroft, “ John went on. Oh. “Back at the hospital, when the midwife sent me away to get Mary something to eat.” Then he explains me what will happen. That my brother has already prepared the papers John will need to annul the marriage. (Easy, let's be grateful Mary didn't use her real name.) That there will always be some of his minions who will follow the Watsons to hospital, standing by to arrest Mary the minute the baby is out. (Enough charges to press, attempted murder on Sherlock Holmes only one of them.)

And that he wants me to be at the hospital the next time. Says I need to be there to hold Emilia (whom we will call Grace because unlike me he likes the name more than Emilia) immediately after she is born so we can bond. This leaves a warm feeling somewhere in my chest (probably inside my heart), all insecurity and apprehension forgotten. 

“John, I ...” I start, not sure how to vent all these little butterflies inside my stomach, “I … concur.”

John laughs, remembering my first clumsy attempt at romantic talking back in autumn. “I concur you too, you romantic idiot,” he says, and then ends the call to go (to his fake) home.

But it's perfectly all right this time. It won't be long now anyway.


	15. Chapter 15

I don't sleep much that night, preparing the questioning of Benjamin Jesterton that Janine has organized. Go through pictures and videos of that former business partner of hers. Thirty-two, looking twenty-one. Not only because of his tedious youthful hair style. Wears modern horn-rims and expensive tattered jeans. Has been in love with her. Unrequited. Unnoticed. (I try not to sympathise with him.)

Well, meeting him makes not sympathising easier. Turns out he is a real arsehole. And lies almost every time he opens his mouth. 

He welcomes me and Janine (who has agreed to serve as a intermediary) with an easy-going “Nice to meet you!” (Lie. He hates to see us.) and lets us into his (expressively understated) home. Tells Janine that she is as beautiful as always. (Lie. Thinks that her bottom has got fatter.) Shakes my hand and makes it clear that he is sure that I will be able to prove his innocence. (Lie. Scared I might find out something about him. What? Need to investigate further.)

When we talk about the “Miss me” video he gets nervous (slight trembling of his hands, quickly hidden frown, holds eye contact a bit too long). (Is hiding something big, and nervous about it.) When I mention his past involvement with Janine, he avoids answering my questions with evasive comments (and thinks that I do not notice).

After eight minutes I am sure that he has something to do with broadcasting the video. Problem: Mycroft had his minions check Jesterton's online traffic as well as his mobile and that of everybody probably involved with him. There was no hint he might be involved at all. 

A riddle. One of the annoying ones. Janine and Jesterton continue to prattle while I consider our next steps. How can his reactions be so at odds with Mycroft's research? Could it be that one of Mycroft's minions has been bribed? Unlikely. Could Mycroft have initiated the broadcast and used Jesterton as a scapegoat? No, my brother's surprise about the video had been real. Could Jesterton be using channels that Mycroft is completely unaware of?

Disturbing, but possible.

Lacking John to talk to, I use Janine instead. Once we are out of Jesterton's home, I tell her what I think. The idea of channels Mycroft does not know of does not surprise her at all. She pats my arm (again!) and smiles, “Sherlock, I think it is time for you to meet Yasmin.” When I fail to react, she explains (with the same voice teachers use with nice but slow pupils), “Yasmin is the one person to go to if you want to avoid Mycroft Holmes' attention. She can provide you with anything without your brother noticing. Contacts, identities, weapons, … And she is a real darling.”

“Then why should she be willing to talk to me?”, I wonder. 

Janine laughs. “Oh, she owes me a favour. Besides,” she goes on, dragging me towards the cab she has stopped, “she reads John's blog regularly. Real crush.”

Well, the idea of people having a crush on me is nothing new, though incomprehensible to me. And if this crush is big enough to make that woman provide me with information she would otherwise keep secret, who am I to reject that?

“You will like her,” Janine says, and it turns out that she is absolutely right.

When we enter “Yasmin's Laundrette” (nice little business to cover her illegal activities), Yasmin is already expecting us, thanks to Janine having texted her. She is beaming, radiating benevolence and cordiality. It takes only one glance to deduce that she was not Yasmin when she was born, but rather Yasin or Yusuf. 

“Oh, look,” she beams, “the infamous Sherlock Holmes, standing in my laundrette!” She gives me a hug that leaves little doubt about the artificial nature of her breasts and the genuine nature of the stubbles. when she stands back, she’s so elated that her ponytail and her dress continue swinging for a while. Her heavy perfume remains with me.

She greets Janine just as cordially and gives me the warmest smile I have ever received (besides when John smiles at me) and starts chatting about the Miss Me video and what a terrible person Jesterton is. Tells me that unfortunately she does not know anything about it at all (genuine regret). When I cannot help but sigh at that, she hugs me again. “I am really sorry, Sherlock,” she tells me, and means it. Probably due to the crush on me Janine mentioned before.

Before I can object, there is peppermint tea standing on the counter in front of us and some sweets, and we are talking about anything and everything. Well, mostly it's Yasmin and Janine talking, and I am listening. Intensely. Because on the one hand Yasmin is a fascinating person. 

And on the other hand she is deliberately avoiding a certain topic. I am intrigued. What can it be? It becomes even more interesting when I deduce that Janine is always trying to make her talk about it. And I still don't know what it is all about. Feels a bit like watching a fencing match without seeing the rapier.

Finally it happens. They tattle about a criminal who managed to disappear from Mycroft's radar after breaking into the Bank of Scotland only to get caught at commiting fiscal fraud in Germany. 

“I really shouldn't mention him,” Yasmin smiles at me, “with your brother still angry at losing track of him.”

“Oh,” I assure her, “I am perfectly fine with the idea of people outwitting my brother. Especially when he is outsmarted by a lovely lady like you.”

She beams at the compliment. “Aw, you are really as charming as the good doctor always states on his blog.”

Of course she likes the blog. Everybody does. Feel a surge of pride at that thought. Strange that I have been jealous of John's success once. 

“Check it for updates every day,” she explains. “But there is very little to read, lately.” She hesitates. Wants to say something but does not. Instead she asks, “Tell me, how is he in real life?” Subconsciously licks her lips. Touches her hair. She is …

Oh.

She doesn't have a crush on me.

Out of the corner of my eyes I see Janine suppressing a giggle. Of course she knew that Yasmin has a crush on John and not on me. And of course she knew I would naturally assume that she had a crush on me. I do my best not to blush with embarrassment.

“He's … “ I start and have to stop again instantly. How can you find the words to describe someone like John? Impossible. “He's warm and loyal and honest,” I go on then, my words a shallow effigy of the man I love, “a brilliant marksman and the most patient man on earth.”

Something in Yasmin's expression changes (and also in Janine's, but in a different way. Need to watch it again later to analyse). “Oh,” Yasmin breathes, “oh poor dear, you're in love with him.” 

Again, I don't know what to say. Somehow I must have missed the fact that today it the international “Embarrass Sherlock Holmes” day. 

Yasmin does not seem to realize my abashment. Instead she goes on, “And he is stuck with this mean bitch, instead of being free for you.” She also misses the meaningful look Janine gives me over the rim of her tea cup. “Oh, dear, you would make such a lovely couple. It's really a shame that he married that cunt. Especially now that she's ...”

She stops in mid-sentence and bites her lips. Now that is the topic the two were dancing around earlier. “Now that Mary is what?” I ask, because there must be something bigger going on than the pregnancy.

Janine nods encouragingly, “Now that Mary is what, Yasmin?”

There is an awkward silence for a while. Then she disappears into the back of her laundrette and returns with an envelope. Still hesitates to hand it to me. “Mary is relentless, Sherlock dear,” she says with gravity, “If I give you this, you need to promise me that you will protect me from her.”

Our eyes lock, and I see serious fear in her eyes. “Promised,” I agree. I know how it feels to fear Mary. I know it perfectly well.

Yasmin is still reluctant. Then she looks into my eyes for a long time. Finally, she hands me the envelope. “She asked me to do this for her, and you don't usually get the chance to say no to her.” she explains. “Please, be gentle when you tell John. This will surely break his heart.”

Inside the envelope there is a passport with Mary's picture on it, claiming her to be Christine Holden from Canada. And a return ticket for a flight from London to Vancouver, in a bit more than six weeks. (Clever, really. Returning to Canada is a lot more inconspicuous than entering Canada.)

And there is an additional reservation for a certain Denise Holden. Age: ten days. 

For a second it feels like my world is tilting to the side. She is planning on taking GraceNotEmilia away from John. She is planning to leave him and take GraceNotEmilia with her. She is planning to take the baby and disappear for good. After all the hurt she has caused already, she is planning to take the baby away from John. 

I can feel my cheeks burning with anger. Tell myself to stay calm. Tell myself that it will not happen anyway because John has asked Mycroft to have her arrested right after giving birth. Tell myself that Mary will not be able to take away the baby. Remind myself that I need to breathe.

“This will not happen,” I tell Yasmin, and she nods. 

“Take everything,” she says, “and make sure that I'll be protected when Mary finds out. She wanted to pick up her papers one day before the plane leaves.”

“Don't worry, she will be in prison by then,” I do my best to reassure her. 

On our way back to Baker Street, I tell myself that there is no reason to panic. Mary will not leave the country. John will not lose his daughter.

Janine gives me an unreadable glance. “Pretty much the same thing you were planning to do to her, isn't it? Taking the baby away from her?”

My clenched guts agree with her. My brain is trying to disagree. My heart is caught in between, and I feel misery mixing with anger and guilt. “You cannot compare that,” I hiss, and when Janine continues to talk about it, I tune her out and think of how to break the news to John instead.

I need to be gentle, of course, Yasmin has been absolutely right about that. Better not to tell him at all, at least not until the baby is born and Mary locked up. Yes, that is the only reasonable course of action. Tell Mycroft, but not John or Mary, and then wait. Patiently. It won't be long now anyway. 

When we get out of the cab I tell myself to calm down. When I open the door, I tell myself to conceal it until John and Mary have left. When I go upstairs I tell myself to be patient. When I open the door I tell myself to hide my anger. When I enter the living room I tell myself to calm down.

When my eyes fall on Mary (standing in the kitchen, her right arm loosely around John's hips, a completely innocent expression on her face, her left hand thoughtlessly placed on her immense belly), I tell myself to remain impassive.

When she says that she needs to go to the loo, I explode. “You are not going anywhere, Christine Holden!” Throw the envelope on the kitchen table. Watch her expression change from surprise to understanding to anger within a second. See her step away from John and instantly place myself between them, just to make sure.

“Where did you ...” Her eyes flicker from the envelope to me, then to Janine. “You took him to Yasmin,” she hisses accusingly.

Janine doesn't even flinch. Out of the corner of my eye I see John and Mycroft checking the faked papers. Mycroft starts typing on his mobile instantly. John pales. “How long have you been planning this?”, he asks, dangerously calm.

Mary takes another step away from us. Slowly approaching her coat that seems to be carelessly left on one of the kitchen chairs. “Oh, please, do you really think I don't know what is going on?” she laughs bitterly, taking one more step towards her coat. “Do you think I don't know that the two of you are fucking each other behind my back?” One more step. “Do you think I did not realize that you never really forgave me?” One more step. “That you are only waiting for me to have the child before taking her away from me and leaving me for good?” 

Takes one more step towards her coat. “Do you really think I don't know that you have always loved him more than me?”

With surprising swiftness, Mycroft suddenly stands between her and that coat (and the weapon hidden inside). Grabs her by her arms (probably a bit harder than necessary), and lets his most annoying smug voice rain over her, “Amber Garrison, I am arresting you for illegal immigration, use of forged papers, burglary and attempted murder on at least one occasion, among other crimes. You will be arrested until the government has decided whether to punish you for your crimes against the crown, or to deliver you to one of the countries looking for you.”

One of his minions takes over, handcuffs her. She's seething with anger, hatred emanating from her so thickly you can almost touch it. Mycroft remains unimpressed. “I have heard that there are some nasty charges against you in Liberia.” He smiles, “Not the most eager advocate for human rights, that little country, but they really know how to handle prisoners.”

Mary looks like she is ready to murder us all with a look right here. “You will not get away with that“ she yells, “John, you will never be happy, I swear. You will all pay for this. I have got out of worse situations than this and ...”

There would surely have been a long list of threats, but she stops in mid-sentence, her face shifting to surprise, and then annoyance. Looks down on the ground where a little puddle of fluid is growing bigger and bigger with each passing second. 

Her waters have broken, and quite spectacularly so. “We need to take them to hospital,” John says, voice wavering with more emotions than I can decipher.

“Holloway Prison has the best maternity ward,” Mycroft explains calmly, “and it is nearby. They are already expecting us.”

All I can think of before paternal pre-birth panic sweeps my mind away is: I will surely love that baby girl to pieces, for her aptitude of dramatic entrances is as distinctive as mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay, but actually I am desperately looking for a native speaker who would be willing to beta this fic from here on. So, I shamelessly use this note to ask you all: Is there someone willing to jump in? I need help mainly with the finer details of grammar, like tenses and prepositions (evil little bastards). Input on the plot is not necessary, but always welcome.
> 
> Special thanks to Jolie_Black who beta-ed this chapter simply because she is such a wonderful person. Thank you, dear!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest thanks to my new fantastic betas katzedecimal and Grizi, and my ongoing love to GoSherlocked.

Here we go!

(Facts calm me down. Like this one: Holloway Prison is located at Parkhurst Road. Opened in 1852, mixed prison. All female since about 1902. Completely rebuilt from 1971 to 1985. Capacity of 501.)

Mycroft's men lead Mary to a car that has mysteriously appeared in front of 221b. John and I follow them, but Mary spits venom at us, so we have to retreat into another car.

(Eighteen minutes from 221b Baker Street via Albert Road, nineteen minutes via Marylebone Street. Heavy road work on Marylebone, Albert Road should be preferred.)

Inside the car, John grabs my hand wordlessly.

(In England, there are 63.6 live births per 1,000 women of childbearing age. Around 4,000 stillbirths every year in the UK. 1 in every 200 births ends in a still-)

(Stop.)

(Try again.)

(The process of normal childbirth is categorised in three stages of labour: )

(better)

Entering the prison is easy. We are expected, apparently ... and well-known. We are ushered into a hallway. Mary is taken into the delivery ward. John instinctively follows, but the curses Mary shouts at him make it abundantly clear that he is not wanted. 

(The shortening and dilation of the cervix, descent and birth of the infant, and the placenta being expelled. There are six phases of a typical vertex delivery: First, engagement of the fetal …)

John squeezes my hand. I snap out of my (frantic) mind for more than a second this time and find myself placed next to John on a plastic chair in the waiting room. Have been waiting for a while. How long? Check with clock at the wall. (Ikea, model Pugg, 12 pounds, less than three months old.) About one hour. 

“The active phase of childbirth takes an average of eight hours in the UK,” I tell John, who grins at me like a maniac. Why is he grinning? There is a child about to be born. (Well, sometime within the next seven hours or so, but still). Our baby (more or less).

How can he grin when I am at the edge of panic? He might be a natural talent when it comes to grinning.

(You use forty-three muscles to grin.)

I receive a text. Mycroft. Benjamin Jesterton admitted that he was the one who tried to pretend Moriarty was still alive. Motive: unrequited love. 

(Love is still the most common motive for murder in the UK.)

Now that I solved that riddle, I'll be allowed to stay in London, a free man. Free to live at Baker Street with John and the baby. My grinning might match John's now.

We wait for one hour and thirty-eight minutes before I go and acquire us two coffees.

(Asda’s Extra Special Fairtrade Colombian Roast & Ground Coffee. Unfortunately gone stale after being stored the wrong way for more than three weeks.)

We drink the coffee, John goes to the bathroom, and then we continue to wait for another forty-six minutes.

(The waiting room was redecorated four weeks ago. Wilko Matt Emulsion Soft Cream. Blood stains on the wall not completely covered. Caused by self-inflicted wound on a left-handers right wrist with a knife that could have been sharper.)

Then I receive a text from Janine, telling me that she convinced Jesterton to confess. 

(Can't help but feel fond of her, even though I am sure that I better not ask how she convinced him.)

My nervous stomach doesn't agree with the stale coffee. “You should store coffee in a dark sealed box” I tell John who starts grinning again almost instantly. Leans over and kisses my cheek.

“You will be a wonderful father,” he says and we continue to wait. 

(father, noun. Old English fæder "father, male ancestor," from Proto-Germanic *fader (cognates: Old Saxon fadar, Old Frisian feder, Dutch vader, Old Norse faðir, Old High German fater, German vater), from PIE *pəter (cognates: Sanskrit pitar-, Greek pater, Latin pater, Old Persian pita, Old Irish athir "father"), presumably from baby-speak sound like pa.)

(A father (or dad) is a male parent who has raised a child, supplied the sperm through sexual intercourse or sperm donation which grew into a child, and/or donated a body cell which resulted in a clone. Traditionally, fathers act in a protective, supportive and responsible way towards their children. )

I will be someone's father. 

Who the hell thought that would be a good idea?

“How am I supposed to behave in a protective, supportive and responsible way?” I ask. 

That makes John stop grinning for a moment. He looks at me seriously, and I can see several thoughts crossing his mind, but not one of them makes it all the way to his lips. He does this endearing thing with his upper lip and his forehead, and then finally says, “Will you love her?”

Stupid question. Of course I will. I already do. She will be half John, that alone makes her adorable. The thought of something going wrong, now that we are so close to having her, makes my mind quote silly facts from Wikipedia. I picture baby toys in the kitchen instead of chemicals and don't mind. I did research on sleeping patterns, and there is a new room in my mind palace filled with pictures of baby stool so I will be able to judge if her digestion is all right or not. How can John even ask if I love her?

I tell him that, and he nods. Tries to say something extremely emotional but fails. Kisses me roughly instead. Knows that I know that he wanted to tell me that GraceNotEmilia will have two fathers who love her. Two more than John had. Knows that I know that he thinks this alone will make us fantastic dads.

I refuse to let go of his (left) hand when he breaks the kiss, and we continue to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally, a woman (doctor, will cheat on her husband tonight, loves her job) comes into the waiting room. John, who has been calm and grinning all the time, jumps up so fast he nearly knocks over his chair. 

“Everything all right?” he asks (still holding my hand. Painfully so. Might get bruises tomorrow. Still feels wonderful).

The doctor gives us a half-hearted smile. “Your wife and daughter are both all right, Dr. Watson,” she says (and wilfully ignores us holding hands). “The mid-wife will bring the baby to you as soon as she is cleaned.”

“And as soon as the mother will have been forced to say goodbye to her” is what she does not say, but thinks so loud it is impossible for me to ignore. For once I am glad that John does not read people the way I do.

But there is no time to think about it, because the midwife (twenty-eight, still touched by the wonders of birth, drummer in a punk band) comes out, in her arm a little (innocent, helpless, fragile) bundle. 

“Jesus,” John breathes, and steps towards her. Recklessly stretches out his hands and takes his (our) daughter into his arms. Cradles her a little. Can't take her eyes off of her while the midwife tells him details about the birth. 

I get dizzy and realize that I am holding my breath. 

A few seconds later, John turns around and holds the baby right under my nose. “Look at her,” he whispers, and I do. The shape of her (little) head tells me that she has been pressed against Mary's pubis for about one hour before finding the right way out. The colour of her skin tells me that she has been a bit reluctant to breathe at first. The wrinkles on her face tell me that she has been inside the birth canal for at least ninety minutes. 

I am completely taken aback by how much I can deduce about this tiny bundle of life. 

“Your wife said her name is Evelyn,” the midwife says after some time, and John's face hardens instantly.

“No, it is not,” he states, and without looking at me he adds, “it's Emilia.”

“Grace” I correct him instantly, and he smiles, broader than I have ever seen him smile.

“Emilia Grace Watson” he informs the midwife, and I am completely taken aback by how much I love both of them. 

Her eyes are wide open, blue like all baby's eyes, and she has lots of short black hair, and her nose and chin look strangely like John's. But she is so small and helpless and her fingers are insanely thin. I am endlessly grateful for the fact that John holds her, because I would surely drop her or squash her. 

“Sir,” one of the prison guards says, “we will bring your wife to her room in the internist’s ward now. There she will be officially imprisoned. If you want to talk to her before, you need to see her now.”

John nods, subconsciously brings his body into full soldier mode - 

and presses Emilia Grace into my arms before marching away.

Oh my God.

I stare at the baby.

She stares back. 

I expect her to start wailing any second, but she doesn't. Instead she sighs and snuggles deeper into my arms. When I carefully move my index finger towards her, she snatches it and refuses to let go.

Before I fully understand what is happening, I am telling Emilia Grace all the deductions I have made since entering this room several hours ago. I talk to her about her dad and her aunt Harry. I inform her on the pros and cons of bottle feeding and how I intend to help her finding a regular sleeping pattern. 

John seems to take his time and that makes my heart do strange unpleasant things, so I tell Emilia about Jennifer Wilson and about H.O.U.N.D and about the rooftop of St. Bart's. Afterwards, John is still with Mary, so I tell Emilia about Janine and her brother who has gone insane, and about Benjamin Jesterton and how I found out that he was lying and … 

about … 

how Janine reacted to that … 

and …

Wait. 

But before I can continue that thought, John storms into the waiting room again, and drops dead at the sight of Emilia and me. He comes closer slowly, places his hand on my shoulder and pretends very hard not to be moved to tears. 

I love him, so I pretend not to notice. 

“Let's take her home,” he says, and I can only nod. 

That is exactly when my mobile chimes again. John fishes it out of my pocket and shows it to me. Mycroft once more. Sent a picture of John's old room, miraculously turned into a crib. 

“Home,” John repeats, and we leave Holloway prison for good.

### 

One week (forty-one bottles of baby formula, forty-six nappie changes and six sleepless nights) later I find the opportunity to see Janine again. She comes over, squeals at Emilia who gracefully ignores her, and lingers on when John packs our daughter (our! daughter!) into the hated jacket and takes her for a walk.

“So,” Janine said, “thank you for helping me with Jesterton.”

What an interesting choice of words, I think. I used the last six sleepless nights to contemplate the whole thing and finally understood yesterday that I have been used. For my own good, I have to admit, but still.

“Thank YOU” I reply, “for preventing my death trip to Serbia.”

She looks at me, only mildly surprised, and grins. “You are welcome, Sherlock Holmes.” 

We share a moment in silent understanding, and I wonder if I can let the whole thing go uncommented. Well, no, of course not. 

“So,” I continue instead, “you faked your brother's fake return. I am flattered, but keeping me in England was not the only purpose, was it?”

“Of course not.” She smiles, but then sobers before continuing, “Jesterton is a mean little vermin. Likes to humiliate women he is with. Hurt several prostitutes and always got away with it. No proof, you know.”

“Did he hurt you as well?” I know the answer already, but somehow it feels right to ask. The politeness John emanates seems to be rubbing off on me.

Janine seems to have found the most interesting spot on the carpet and stares at it. Then she nods. “Like Magnussen,” she explains, quietly. “He liked to flick my face, you know?” 

I know. Remember him doing that to John. Wonder if he might still be alive if he hadn't.

“You did the world a favour when you shot him, Sherlock. And I did the world a favour by having Jesterton arrested, no matter on what charges.”

“How did you make him confess?”

At that, Janine grins once more. “I am a Moriarty, after all,” she quips, and then moves closer. Kisses the tip of my nose and says, “Yasmin would be more than pleased if you and your little family came over for some tea one day.”

We share another smile, and then I lean forward and press a chaste little kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, Janine.”

When she is on her way out, she turns around one last time. “Watch out for your family, Sherlock,” she says seriously. “Mary is really, really angry. Please don't underestimate the resentment of a woman.”

I won't. When Janine is gone, I start rinsing the baby bottles, and then stop to contemplate the fact that I have become a man who rinses baby bottles. Can't help but grin at it. I swiftly carry on rinsing, and then prepare some food for John, who will be back from his predictable walk in exactly twelve minutes, and prepare the next bottle for Emilia who will be hungry in about thirty minutes. 

I still marvel at how happy that makes me. 

 

End of part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, this is a fluffy ending, isn't it? If you prefer it that way, you can stop reading now, and John, Sherlock and the baby will live happily ever after. That was my plan when I started writing, and I can understand everyone who wants this to be the end, too.
> 
> Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how much you like angst and hurt and inner demons and more angst) I have decided to continue, and let me just say that there are rough times ahead for the boys. I have already added a few new tags and warnings for part 2. Please take a look at them to avoid triggers. 
> 
> No other fic of mine has ever had that many subscriptions and comments. Lots of love to you, dear subscribers, followers and new readers. You make me immensely happy. 
> 
> Some of the pages that I needed for Sherlock's thoughts:  
> http://www.justice.gov.uk/contacts/prison-finder/holloway  
> www.wikipedia.com  
> http://www.etymonline.com  
> www.dailymail.co.uk  
> www.wilko.com


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said "character death" and here you are... Please be warned again, it gets painful today.

“Oh my goodness, who's a smelly girl? Did her go poopy? Does her need a clean nappy? ” Mycroft says, and no-one finds it strange. There is no better way of demonstrating how things have changed over the last four months. 

We are at my parents' home, John and Emilia and me, invited to celebrate the first time she rolled from her back onto her belly. Quite unintentional, but still. My parents are the proudest nearly-grandparents in the world, and their enthusiastic overkill makes up for the lack of interest John's family displays.

We have already been invited to celebrate the first night she slept without waking up at three in the morning, the first time she smiled, the first time we needed nappies size 2... The list of special occasions is endless, and to my surprise I grew fond of those celebrations rather soon. To his even bigger surprise, so did uncle Mycroft. Looks like the days of “caring is not an advantage” are far behind him. Emilia has melted his heart the same way John once melted mine.

John enjoys the evenings at my parents just as he enjoys the walks in the park with the push chair, the tea we sometimes have at Yasmin's laundrette or feeding the early morning bottle when the rest of London is soundly asleep. He is not sure if it was Emilia or me who melted his heart and turned him into a family man, but I am sure that it was brilliant team work by both of us.

When Mycroft has changed Emmi's nappies and Daddy has finished making fun of it, the two of us sneak outside, absolutely not to smoke secretly. (John will smell it, but I will shamelessly say that it was just my brother smoking, not me, and John will pretend to believe me. That's the way we do it every time my parents invite us.)

For a while, Mycroft and I just enjoy the quiet of the garden and the forbidden pleasure of tobacco. Then he looks at me, deduces one thing or the other, and smiles. “You are happy,” he states.

I want to deny it instantly (childish impulse to contradict him just because), but have to admit that he is right. “Surprisingly so,” I say, and can't help but smile too. “Who would have thought that a long-term relationship and fatherhood could make me happy.”

At that, Mycroft gives me a long (unguarded, extremely touching) look. “Me,” he simply says, and adds, “and what a father you turned out to be.”

For a (very short) moment I have to fight the impulse to hug him. He deduces that too, of course, grins (which makes him look young and reckless), and gracefully changes the topic.

“There is a really interesting thing MI6 is currently working on for me. You really should consider -” Suddenly he stops in mid-sentence. Looks at me in surprise and tumbles towards me. I don't understand what is happening, but my mind sends me into the mind palace for the fraction of a second, analysing.

There was a sound I didn't notice because I have been distracted by Mycroft's (loving) words. Three sounds, that is, or rather three times the same sound. Shots. (Sniper, rifle.) He started bleeding almost instantly. I had missed that because I was distracted by the surprise on his face. The blood tells me where he was hit (chest. Shot from the second storage of the empty house on the other side of the street. The bullets have flown by my shoulder. More difficult to miss me than to hit me from that angle. I was spared on purpose, so no need to duck for cover.) I watch the beginning of the bleeding again to judge the damage the bullets have caused. (Two bullets tearing up his heart and also hitting his lungs, the third one missing the heart but most likely shattering his spine. No need for first aid or an ambulance. Mycroft is dying already.)

It only takes me half a second to realise all this. I am back in the real world even before he sinks into my arms. His hands are frantically searching for something to hold on to, finding and clinging to my left shoulder and the upper part of my neck, getting a hold on my hair as well. We descend to the ground together.

His eyes are opened wide with panic. He knows that he is dying. His breath is forced. “Sherlock,” he gasps, “I, I ...” Unable to talk further. There is a guttural, painful sound coming out of his throat. Blood filling his lungs. I wonder if he will drown before he will bleed to death. His head sags against my chest. 

He never finishes the sentence, and I … I don't know what he wants to say. Can't deduce what he wants to tell me. I can't … I don't know. Why don't I know? I have to know, I have to ...

His mouth opens and closes again and again, and I still don't understand.

“All right,” I tell him, “it's all right.” Why do I tell him such lies? 

Hear him breathe in. Painful, forced sound. Blood inside his lungs. Start stroking his head, and start repeating, “I'm with you.”

Hear him breathe out. Feel my shirt get wet. (Blood. Warm.) He starts to tremble slightly, and I hold him even closer. Slowly start rocking him in my arms. “It's all right, I have you” my mouth keeps saying again and again.

He breathes in again. Ragged now. The trembling grows stronger. It will be over any second, but right now he is still here. He is still with me. I still have a brother. There is so much I should tell him, quickly. How much I will miss him. How grateful I am for all he did for me. How sorry I am for those petulant, wasted years when I was young. But my mouth is set on automatic, apparently, and all that comes out is “I love you.”

He breathes out again. The sound his lungs make hurt me. His body is trembling so badly now that his teeth must be chattering. His head is growing heavier on my arm. I am still rocking him, babbling, “I love you, I love you.” 

He breathes in again. It takes him three attempts to finish his dying breath. Then suddenly his body is jerking with so much force that I nearly let go of him, and then, in one fluid, almost elegant movement, his body slacks. First his legs, then his torso. Then his hands lose their grip on me, slowly sliding down my body, almost softly. Then his head lolls down my arm. 

I wait for him to breathe out again, but that never happens.

There is a cramp inside my throat. I want to talk to him, I want to tell him that everything will be all right and that I have him, but all of a sudden I cannot find the words. Instead, there is a horrible scream, coming from somewhere nearby. Sounds like a wounded animal. We are alone in the garden, so I guess it must be me.

Then suddenly, there is action around me. I hear Mummy's high pitched scream. Daddy shouting something. And there is John, suddenly by my side, talking to me rapidly. Can't understand what he says, but would be unable to answer anyway. He leans forward to check Mycroft's pulse. (Sees that it is too late, but has to do it anyway.)

I lower my brother's corpse a bit, so John can reach it easily. Stare at Mycroft's face. Slack with death. Eyes looking at nothing, his mouth hanging half-open. He looks strangely relaxed that way, years younger than normally. John's fingers leave a little blood stain on his throat. 

John grabs me by my shoulders (one hand exactly where Mycroft's had been mere seconds ago) and shouts something at me. It seems to be very important, so I force myself to look at him and listen.

“Where are you hurt?”

Shake my head. Not hurt. Not my body, at least. Look down and see my shirt and trousers soaked in Mycroft's blood. No wonder John thought I was hit too. “I'm not hit,” I try to tell him, but my speech is slurring badly. Start to tremble. Shock?

“Good,” John says, “good.” (Wants to say more but doesn't.) We both look down at Mycroft. With my arms trembling I can no longer hold him, so I lower him to the ground. With enormous effort I lean forward and close his eyes. (His face still warm. Lips blue.) My fingers leave another blood stain, matching the one John's fingers left at his throat. Something drips onto his forehead. Apparently I am crying.

I use the last bit of energy left inside my body to lean backwards, against John's (warm) (living) body. Feel his arms surround me. “I love him,” I tell John, again and again, crying badly, and then finally my brain shuts down, and darkness covers me, softly and safe.

### 

When I come back to my senses, I am cowering underneath the hot shower. John is kneeling in front of me, fully clothed and completely soaked, washing my hair. There is something red mixing with the white foam of my shampoo. Blood, of course. 

I look up at him. “Hey, are you with me?”, he asks. So much sadness in his voice. 

I nod. Can't stop my mind from turning. Think of how Mycroft had always thought he would die alone one day. “I was with him,” I tell John. He cups my wet face and presses a kiss on my forehead.

My eyes wander, stopping at the small window on the other side of the room. It is still light outside. But cold. It had already been cold when we went outside. “It is cold outside,” I tell John. Realise how erratic my thoughts must appear to him. 

But he understands. “I covered him with a blanket before the police arrived, remember?” he explains, and I am so grateful that I start crying again. But only a little.

I cannot remember the police. I cannot remember his body being taken away. (Probably better that way.) Did the police get all the facts right? It was one sniper, experienced. Very skilled. Three bullets through the heart means it was something personal. 

“Why was I spared?” I wonder, instantly regretting it, because John nearly breaks into tears as well. We hold onto each other like we are drowning, me naked, him still fully clothed, underneath the running shower. 

When I am dry again and wrapped up in Daddy's dressing gown, and John is covered in Daddy's way too big track suit that I was supposed to be wearing instead, he leads me downstairs. Wish I could just stop on the stairs, and keep standing there forever, just to avoid meeting my parents. Seeing their grief will make our loss even more real, and that is the last thing I want right now.

I cannot help but think of all the times I have been snippy to some victim's loved ones. There is no place in my heart for self-loathing now, but I am very sure I will come back to that thought later.

Mummy is clutching to Emilia like to a lifeline. Another lump forming inside my throat: Emilia has lost her uncle. All the jokes we made about Mycroft spying on her future boyfriends and scaring away those that are unworthy of her love. But he will never see her growing up. 

Put that thought aside for a while. (Feel the room I have in my mind palace for put-aside thoughts growing and growing.) Take in the scene instead. Mummy holding Emilia, Dad holding Mummy. They are mourning their son, and I cannot comfort them. Can only just remain standing because John is close to my side. 

Don't know what to say to them when my eyes lock with Daddy's. See tears spring into his eyes, and before I can further think about it, John gently lets go of me and I end up in Daddy's arms. See John embracing Mummy and Emilia instead. John. It's always John who tries to keep things right for me.

### 

Don't know how I made it through the rest of the day. Memories of it surface every now and then, but the better part of it is hidden somewhere I cannot reach it. Don't want to reach it, not now. Now all I want is for that horrible day to end. I want to stay in my old bed, John pressed close to my side, Emmi sleeping soundly in a travel crib next to us.

With John's hand on my back and his other hand underneath my cheek I feel brave enough to think things through. Mycroft was shot by someone who knew where our parents live, and who knew that Mycroft would be here today. Someone from his inner circle? 

But someone from his inner circle would have no reason to let me survive. Missing me while hitting him was such a complicated shot. Someone wanted me to survive. But why? 

Was the whole thing aimed at hurting me? But if yes (ignore the bitter pain in my stomach) why shooting Mycroft and not (the pain is getting worse) John or Emmi? So it was someone who hated Mycroft enough to kill him, who wanted to hurt me as well but wanted to spare John and …

Lord, no!

I snap out of my trail of thoughts. “Get my mobile,” I whisper (out of habit, in order not to wake up Emilia). John reaches for it and hands it to me, but (for no apparent reason) my fingers are shaking too badly to dial. 

“Call Holloway Prison,” I order him, and he nods. (Have expected him to pale, but apparently the thought has already occurred to him.) 

I don't have to listen to the call. Everything is so obvious that it hurts. In my mind I see Mary provoking an incident that leaves her in solitary confinement. See the bribed (or intimidated or blackmailed) prison officer helping her escape while everyone believes her to be still confined. See them searching for her right now frantically, and in vain. 

Something in John's eyes has changed after the call, but I cannot concentrate on that right now. Need to think of Janine and Yasmin, both involved in Mary's imprisonment. Have John text them warnings. Trust Janine to take care of Yasmin. Who else needs to be protected? My parents have been spared. Mary missed the opportunity to kill them (pain in my stomach is back at that thought) when they entered the garden. 

Will she go after Mrs Hudson? Molly or Lestrade? Unlikely. Need to warn them anyway, but what good will it do? You cannot hide from a good sniper, no matter what you do. 

I need to know what Mary is up to. Need to think, but can't. Need to...

“Breathe,” I hear John whispering into my ear, “Sherlock, breathe, nice and slow, all right?”

Close my eyes so tight that they hurt. “She is dangerous,” I say, and John nods. 

“I know,” he answers, and pets my curls, gently and steadily. 

I try to concentrate on the movement of his hand, but the thoughts inside my mind start whirling around again. Too exhausted to move them into a productive direction. Too exhausted to control them at all. I am sick and sad and lost, and only John keeps me sane at the moment. So much I need to tell him. So much I should have told Mycroft when I still had the time. 

“He was not alone in the end,” I tell John again, and then allow myself to slip into a restless, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzy for beta-ing. <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Many thanks to my wonderful betas for their quickness.

I only sleep for a short while. I am pressed against John, and Emmi's occasional stirring crawls into my subconsciousness every once in a while. Never realised how much the two of them ground me. How could I have slept without them for so long? (Poorly.)

Tonight, of course, I do not expect to find real rest. I doze off again and again, sleep for half an hour once or twice, but otherwise I am content just to feel John's body heat radiating, preventing my soul from under-cooling. 

When Emmi demands feeding at 4 in the morning, I am out of bed before John even wakes up properly. Feeding her now is exactly what my battered mind needs. (Love the night feeding. Just her and me, the only people awake in the whole world. The most intimate part of parenthood.)

When she settles into my lap, eyes half closed, contently sucking her milk, I take the chance to study her minutely. She is more John than Mary, her nose already shaping in a way that leaves no doubt about his fatherhood. The colour of her eyes is still changing every couple of weeks, and her hair is slowly framing her funny little head with an aura of blonde. Wonder how much of Mary we will find in her as she grows up.

I also wonder why I still think of her mother as “Mary”, even though I know her real name now. But to me, she will always be Mary. 

I look down on Emilia again. She is so small and innocent. How are we supposed to protect her from her mother? How am I going to protect everyone? And who will protect me? And will John blame himself if he fails?

Apparently my thoughts are still a bit on the erratic side. 

There is movement behind me, steps on the kitchen floor, the door opening. My father. Comes closer and places his (warm, soft) hand on my shoulder. “I always volunteered to do the night feeding,” he says, his voice low and a bit rough, his mind years away in the past.

“Colleagues always made fun of me. Said with my wife at home why would I get up at night voluntarily?” he tells me, for the first time. Sits down in the chair next to mine. Smiles. “But I wouldn't hear it. During the day I always had to share you boys with your Mummy, but at night it was just the two of us.”

There is so much love in his eyes that it breaks my heart just a little more. He is mourning his son, and Emilia's existence makes me empathise with him far more than I ever thought possible. I think I should say something, but can't find the words. 

Instead I let him continue talking. “Mickey was such a content child when it was feeding time. A bottle of milk, a burp cloth, that was all we needed. But feeding you has always been some kind of challenge,” he says, and I have to laugh a little.

“John would surely agree with you on that one.” I admit, concentrating on getting a burp from Emmi for a while. My mind is still tumbling around, jumping from one thought to the next.

I really want to say something to comfort him. Tell him something about Mycroft he didn't know, for example, share one of our childhood secrets with him. But wouldn't that make him even sadder? Maybe I should tell him how losing Mycroft makes me fear loosing Emmi. But that would only put his focus on me. Or would that be what he needs now? Worry about me so he can't worry about himself?

I wish John were here to tell me what to say. But he isn't, and so in the end I settle for bluntness. “I don't know what to say to comfort you,” I concede, a bit surprised by the amount of sadness in my voice.

But Daddy gives me a teary little smile. Moves closer and presses a kiss on my head before sitting down again. “There is nothing anyone could say to cheer me up, Sherlock. I have lost one of my sons today.” He draws in a deep breath, fights back the tears. “I am just glad that you are here right now.”

I am not sure if he moves first or if it is me, but we end up in a strong embrace, little Emmi pressed against both of us, and finally Daddy cries. We remain standing like that for twenty-six minutes before Emmi finally loses her patience and demands to be taken back to her crib.

“We'll stay as long as you want us to,” I promise, knowing that John would offer the same. Dad nods (gratefully) and pats my back again and again, tears still flowing down his face.

“Your Mummy will be very pleased with you,” he sniffs, “she's been plaguing me to cry all night.”

Again, I cannot help but giggle a little. “Making people cry used to be my speciality before John transformed me into a softie.”

“Yeah,” Dad says, also smiling a little now, “but you still have it in you.” He gives me a teary wink before heading upstairs. I remain standing there, watching Emmi who has fallen asleep in my arm. For once I am content to just watch her sleep.

### 

In the end we stay with my parents for nearly a week. 

The day after Mycroft's death his boss shows up, a lovely elderly man who appears to be the most harmless old man in England but really holds more power than the Queen (or the King? Lost track again.) and the Prime Minister combined. He never tells us his name but gives us his super secret mobile number that only consists of five digits.

What he does tells us is that there is a manhunt for Mary going on, and informs us that we all are under his personal protection from now on until further notice. (His body language furthermore tells me that he is not completely convinced that he will be able to protect us. When he has left I tell John, but not my parents.)

### 

Two days after his death, Mycroft's body is autopsied. It has always been understood between us that we would attend the other's autopsy if possible, and there are orders left to allow it. 

The night before I fear I will not dare to go, but in the end I am standing in the local morgue, looking at the destruction Mary's bullets have caused. Every single one of them would have killed him, but she has made sure that his heart would be completely destroyed. 

The coroner is an elderly woman, and if she thinks it is weird to have the victim's brother hanging around, she keeps that thought to herself. She patiently shows me his accessory spleen, which I have always wanted to see since it was discovered in 1987.

When the autopsy is done, she leaves me alone with him. (Can't bring myself to think of him as “the body”.) I stare at him, completely unsure of what I am feeling and what I am supposed to be feeling. In a childish impulse I reach out and touch his (left) temple, the way I did to wake him up when I was still a little pirate that needed comfort at night. He does not wake up, of course. I let my hand linger there, feeling the cold skin. 

“Now, what can we deduce about my corpse?” inner Mycroft says suddenly, and I nearly jump. 

“I wasn't sure if I'd see you again,” I admit, but inner Mycroft just waves it off.

“I am a part of you,” he explains a bit impatient, “of course I will be around. I don't stop being useful just because I'm dead.”

Of course not. I follow his gaze and try to see, really see his body on the stretcher. What can I deduce? I start with the obvious, touching his belly, “Looks like you ate a lot less cake than I gave you credit for during the last five years,” I state and see inner him grin a little. I continue to observe, let my hand slide down his (left) leg. 

“You worked out a lot on that ridiculous treadmill, but never went outside for proper running,” I tell him, “The medial head of your gastronemicus would be shaped in a different way if you did.” He nods in approval, but remains silent, so I go on, moving back to the upper part of his body.

Feel the muscles on his neck to confirm something I have suspected long ago. Yes, there it is. A series of very telling little knots. “The chair in your office was a bit too high. You had to tilt your head a bit to work at your PC. It must have been uncomfortable, but you never adjusted it.” 

“Why?” he asks me, and I give it some thought.

“Being slightly uncomfortable was important for you. Probably to keep your senses alert. Maybe just to prevent yourself from relaxing too much when the world as we know it had to be ruled.” 

Now he snorts a bit. “Please, Sherlock, I never ruled the world.” He pauses, and the added, “Only the better part of Europe as well as Asia, Australia and Canada.” 

Fair enough. 

“Go on, you haven't said a word about my face.” he prompts then. I take a closer look. His forehead, his eyes, his lips. Then I see what he is leading me to.

“There are barely any wrinkles,” I exclaim, not able to keep the surprise out of my voice. I know that he carried heavy responsibilities on his shoulders, but still his skin is almost smooth.

“How can that be?” he asks again, and I start examining his face closer. No trace of face lifting or botox injections. Skin soft but not unnaturally so, so no heavy usage of anti-ageing creams. The gastric contents had shown a normal, not overly healthy nutrition. So how can he still look that way?

Then it dawns to me. “You were happy,” I concede, and suddenly an immense relief floods my body and soul. “You were content with your life and had enough ways to compensate your stress. Most likely due to … to family matters.” 

Inner Mycroft smiles at me. “That was the one deduction you had still to make, right?” Of course he is right. He is Mycroft, even if only his mind palace version. 

I snap out of my mind palace and find myself alone in the morgue, looking down at my brother's corpse, my hand lingering at his temple again. In my head there is an echo of a conversation we once had. “They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” 

Turns out that in the end there was nothing wrong with us at all. I am only glad that Mycroft lived long enough to realise that, too. 

### 

On the third day after Mycroft's death I completely ignore the fact that there was a fatality and spend it completely focused on Emilia and John instead. Which means that John and I completely focus on Emmi, to be honest. But isn't she the most interesting baby that has ever lived?

She has developed a liking for everything yellow only yesterday, John says, so we spend hours inside and outside the house, showing her everything yellow we can find.

Then we take her under the shower with us and afterwards watch her squeak in delight when my parents blow-dry her extensively. 

At night John and I sit by the fireplace together, taking turns to cuddle her. John falls asleep mere minutes after claiming not to be tired at all, and I take both of them to bed.

This is the most peaceful day of my entire life. How strange is it to have the most peaceful day of your life only three days after watching your brother's brutal death? 

When I ask John about it later that night (after the most silent sleepy orgasm we have ever shared) he kisses me and says, “This is our way of celebrating we are still alive, don't you think?”

He is a genius when it comes to us. 

### 

On the fourth day after Mycroft's death there is his funeral. It is attended by only a handful of people, most of them neighbours and long-term friends of my parents. Some distant relatives. Anthea. 

The ceremony in the little chapel is short and touching. John is comforting Mummy while I cling to Dad and Emmi. 

When we step outside, John and Daddy change places, and I end up in John's steady embrace. Lean into it when the coffin is lowered and it feels like a part of me is buried as well.

The five of us end up in the local pub, four of us telling each other stories of Mycroft, drinking way too much beer in the process. 

When John talks about his first encounter with him, my parents are laughing tears. “That was my boy,” Daddy says, “always knew how to make a lasting first impression.”

“You should have taken the money, John,” Mummy advises, “You and Sherlock could have shared.”

### 

On the fifth day after Mycroft's death John and I discuss how to go on. Should we go back to London with Emmi, presume life as usual and wait for Mary to make her next move (my idea) or should we leave her in my parents' care, and my parents in Mr Supersecret's care to hunt Mary down (John's idea)?

There are arguments for and against both options, and we end up shouting at each other so badly that my parents take Emmi for a walk so she doesn't have to listen to us. 

I hate fighting with John, but the idea of splitting the family up drives me insane. John hates fighting with me less than I hate fighting with him. He would not normally do so while I am still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that Mycroft is gone for good but the idea of waiting for Mary to move drives him insane. 

The compromise would be taking Emmi with us while hunting down Mary which is so stupid that we both have to shout at each other a little bit louder just because.

When we are done fighting we are both so exhausted that instead of having make-up sex we merely have a make-up cuddle. And we still don't know what to do.

The painful truth is that normally I would turn to Mycroft in a situation like that. I guess that only now do I begin to estimate the unbelievable extent of my loss. 

When John gives Emilia her late-night bottle I do one of the things I loudly rejected while we were fighting: I call Mr. Supersecret and ask for advice. 

### 

And so, on the sixth day after Mycroft's death we help my parents pack their stuff and try to be brave when a black limousine takes them away from us, together with Emmi. When they are gone John goes to the bathroom, absolutely not to cry. Which is fine, because meanwhile I can hide in the kitchen where I also don't cry at all.

Then we drive back to London where we try to find Mary before she finds us.

### 

Three weeks after Mycroft's death our patience is running low. Still no sign of where Mary is hiding, still no word from my parents and Emmi, still no idea what Mary is planning to do. John's nightmares about his evil ex-wife finding Emmi are so terrifying that he refuses to tell me the details. I don't have nightmares because I only sleep when my body forces me to. 

John starts to get snappy, I get desperate, and no matter what we do, we seem to go back two steps every time we went one forward.

Three weeks and two days after Mycroft's death we are on our way to the Yard, following a less than convincing lead when John suddenly collapses next to me. Immediately afterwards I feel a sting on my throat, and manage to get a hold on the tranquillizer dart that has hit me. 

We have been waiting for something to happen for so long that I have to laugh in relief while going down.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need to thank my betas GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzy for high speed beta-ing. I am so glad that you are helping me with this. <3

I feel the cold floor underneath me when I wake up again. Not just the floor is chilly, but also the air. I am freezing. Oh, probably because I am nearly naked, only in my pants and t-shirt. It's uncomfortable. I am somehow restrained at my wrists and ankles. 

I try to remain motionless, eyes still closed. Best not give away that I am conscious again. I hear only one other person breathing. John? I listen to the rhythm of the breathing for a while. Regular, not in pain, but not relaxed either. Controlled. Definitely John.

I open my eyes and find him tied to a chair. Fully clothed. Unhurt (thank God). Tired, angry. Slightly scared, most likely on my behalf. Still relatively fresh shaven. So I have not been out cold for more than three days. If John's beard growth were stronger, I could tell more precisely.

I try to sit up and realise that I can't. The chain that binds me to the ground is just slightly too short to allow it. The different ways we are restrained are very telling. John is placed in a superior position, while I am tied to the ground. He is exalted, almost hallowed while I am abased, humiliated.

Different treatments, meaning that Mary has different end games for us in mind.

“Sherlock, you all right?” That's John for you. Captured and tied up by his murderous ex-wife, but mainly concerned about my well-being. Good question though. Am I all right? I don't feel pain, only the cold emanating from the floor. I am able to think clearly.

“I think so,” I answer, a bit surprised at how rough my voice sounds. Must have been out cold for more than one day then. Hard to tell without any natural light in here. I raise my head as high as possible to take a closer look at our prison. No window, only one door. The room is not bigger than approximately five square meters. Bare walls, cast concrete floor. A cellar room? Likely. 

I look at John again. He is tired and angry, worried but not too confused. “So, what did Mary tell you already?” I ask him. (Pleased with his admiring surprise at my correct deduction.) 

His expression shifts, and there is something darker in his eyes now. “Looks like she wants to teach us some kind of lesson,” he states, his calmness too striking to be heart-felt. “Said she'd be back when you're awake. Not sure how long ago that was.”

The door opens before I can answer. Mary. No longer blonde, but brunette. Incredibly pleased with herself. She lets her hand linger on John's shoulder as she comes to a halt next to him. Conclusion: still has feelings for him left. One reason why he was so clearly put into a higher position. Good, his life should be relatively safe then. 

“Sherlock,” she sneers, “finally awake. See, John and I had started the loveliest chat while you were asleep, and I was only waiting for you to join us.” There is something lurking in her eyes. She is waiting for a certain reaction from me. Me being arrogant, most likely, for that would be my usual reaction to a pun like that. Well, better give her what she expects to find out what she is up to.

“Funny,” I say, trying to put just an extra amount of smugness into my voice. (Not really hard to accomplish, I must admit.) “John and I always waited for you to be gone before we got started.”

Watching her expression harden is kind of satisfying. But only temporarily. Her hand that was loosely lingering on John's head grabs his hair and gives it a (painful) drag. John's face clearly shows his pain while he remains absolutely silent. 

“God, Sherlock,” Mary spits, “That's exactly your problem! You just can't keep your dirty mouth shut. And the moment you speak people get hurt.” She takes a deep breath to regain control. Caresses John's head once more. “But we will work on it. Don't worry. When I am done with you, you will never hurt people again.”

“What are you up to?” John asks her. Did she recognise the slight waver of his voice? Does she realise that he is beginning to be scared for me? Hard to tell. She is controlled again, her face not giving away much. 

“I will teach him to be quiet,” she explains then, her hand sliding down John's neck. I can see how disgusted he is by her touch. “Not sure if he will live long enough to operate according to it, but we will see.”

John's concern for me is clearly visible on his face now. I look at him confidently, but he does not react. So I have to calculate the risk of speaking up to assure him that I will survive Mary's little kidnapping. What would he prefer, worrying about me or suffering from physical pain instead?Well, it's John, so the answer is clear.

“Be assured that my life has been threatened in more interesting ways before,” I inform her politely, closely watching John for a reaction. There it is, the slight relaxing of his jaw muscles. He knows now that I don't think I will die here. And he believes that my assessment is correct. Good.

Mary's reaction follows almost immediately, as was to be expected. She slaps him across the cheek, fast and hard. His head is flung back a little. The muscles in his jaws clench again. But his eyes don't flicker. He agrees with me, is glad that I told him. (I can't help but feel an enormous relief at that. Hope that it does not show on my face.)

“You are not a fast learner, are you?” she says to me, truly angry now. “Look at how you force me to hurt John.” Does she really believe this in her own twisted logic? Apparently. That makes her more dangerous than I thought, because that way she can treat John badly without even feeling guilty. 

“So,” she goes on, “here is what we are going to do. Every time you talk, John will get hurt. Funny, don't you think?” She smiles at me (and means it. She really is enjoying herself right now. That is the scariest fact so far.) 

I need to find out how far she is willing to go.

John and I exchange looks. I silently try to communicate that I am sorry for what I will do next. He gives me a nearly imperceptible nod. I have to brace myself for speaking up, knowing it will cause him pain. 

“Maybe you're overestimating my compassion,” I say, and try very hard not to close my eyes when she beats John so hard that the chair nearly topples over. (Funny how his pain hurts me. That could turn out to be a problem during our confinement here.) Mary's face clearly shows her anger with me, but no regret about nearly sending John to the ground. (Bad. She is willing to risk seriously hurting John. Maybe this whole thing turns out to be more dangerous than I thought. I try to will my fear away. Not easy.)

“I don't think so,” she hisses, and struggles hard to regain control. Then she observes me, and her face lights up. “No, clearly not.” 

She leans down to John's ear and says in a low voice, “Look how much it hurt him to cause you pain. And that is exactly what you have to learn, love.” She leans even closer, so close that her lips nearly touch John's earlobe. (He suppresses a shudder. That makes me happier than it should.)

“People get hurt because they love you, John,” she whispers, “and they get hurt because you love them. Just look at Sherlock now.” John does, and I see my own regret reflected on his face. Swiftly, I show him my most confident expression again. But it was too late. He has already seen the pain Mary was talking about in my eyes. 

Mary leaves John's side now, places herself between him and me. Blocks our view of each other. A show of force. 

“Or look at me,” she continues. “All the pain I suffered because I love you.” Love, not loved. Good. The more she loves John, the safer he will be. 

“But you will learn, John, I know you will.” There is honest love in her voice now. (Wish I could see her face.) “You will learn that loving someone else other than me causes only pain.” She approaches him again, kisses his cheek. “I know you will learn!”

With that she leaves us alone.

I consider talking to John, but decide against it. Mary appeared almost instantly after I had woken up. Conclusion: she is monitoring us. I try to spy the camera or microphone, but the room is too poorly lit to find it. Still, she will know that I have talked and punish John for it. At the moment, there is nothing of any value that I could tell John anyway, beside the fact that I am confident that we will make it out of here relatively unharmed.

I mean, all that I have to do is shut up, and no matter what my reputation is, I am sure that I can bring up enough self-control to do so. John has to pretend being sorry for leaving her, soothe her a bit, and by the time she drops her guard I will surely have come up with an escape plan.

Nothing to worry about, right?

I look at John. Our eyes lock, and I try to read his expression. And fail. He is hiding something, some kind of worry. For me? For himself? I cannot tell. Damn. Wish I could just ask him. But that would be exactly what Mary wants. Contemplate speaking to him. 

“Don't,” John says (to my surprise). I frown, and he explains, “Don't talk, Sherlock. It's not necessary. You are sure we will make it out of here, right?” 

I nod, and he nods in return. “Good. That's good.” He wants to say more but doesn't.

Suddenly it dawns to me that remaining quiet might be harder than I thought.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning! If torture triggers something for you, you should stay away from this chaper. 
> 
> I said part two would be darker than part 1. I wasn't kidding. And I am a bit sorry for the next few chapers.
> 
> Thanks to the best betas in the world, GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzy.

We are left alone for what seems to be a long time. (I grow hungry and stiff, so I guess that more than five hours pass, but I am still not sure.) Enough time to think about a way out. Well, we are stuck in a (cellar?) room that is empty except for John's chair. No window, only one door. There are hooks all over the wall and ceiling, strong enough to carry a human being. Some are embedded into the ground, like the four that I am tied to.

It soon becomes obvious that the only way out is through the door. And the only way to reach the door is to overpower Mary somehow when one of us is free. Maybe when she changes our positions, or when she plays one of the games she surely has in mind. 

John seems to be lost in thought as well. He scans the room, thinks about an escape plan (obviously) and finds time to smile at me reassuringly. I do my best to smile back, even though I still have to admit that our options are limited. 

After some time he asks, “You know that we will make it out of here, don't you?”

I nod, and his face relaxes a bit. 

“We will not be able to talk about a plan,” John goes on, “She is surely monitoring everything I say.”

I nod again and then shrug. Never mind that. John and I are so harmonised that we will understand each other without needing to talk. Our eyes meet and I can read John like an open book. He is scared but more for my safety than for his. His arms hurt from being tied to the chair. He is tired, probably even hungry. He is pretending to be more confident than he really is so I would feel safe.

I try to play along by pretending to be confident as well. I hope that he cannot read my doubt.

When Mary finally comes back, she is followed by a huge man. (Older than her, had sex with her at least three times, killed five or more people, been to prison at least twice, one parent from Russia, has no scruples about inflicting pain. Fancies men as much as women, or so his approving glances at John and me tells me. I try not to shiver under his stare.) He carries a whip that he places next to the door.

John notices the man's stare as well. I can tell by his body tension that his fear for my well-being increases. 

“May I introduce you to Big Boy,” she smiles and Big Boy grunts. (Apparently not allowed to speak. Not an ally then. A minion.)

“Big Boy has promised to help me with handling you guys,” she explains. Then she nods at him and he starts immediately untying John from his chair. (This tells me that she has planned it, informed him of what to expect. Meaning: She is acting controlled, not simply following her gut. That could be good for us.) 

Big Boy chains John to one of the hooks on the wall, his back to the wall. Then Mary steps in front of him and pets his cheek. “Don't worry, love,” she says, “If Sherlock manages to be quiet, nothing will happen to you.”

Then she turns to me. She looks at me for a long time. “Well,” she finally says, “I must admit that I'm impressed. Never thought you could really shut up for so long.” There is something feral in her smile when she goes on, “Let's find out how good you really are.”

She nods to Big Boy, who unchains me quickly. Then he pulls me to my knees and holds me in place. (And he enjoys touching my body just a little bit too much.) Mary steps in front of me and takes a little black object out of her pocket. A taser.

“This is how it goes,” she explains. “You and I will have a little fun with this thing here.”

To demonstrate what she means she presses it against my abdomen and -

it feels like all muscles in my body cramp at once I am vaguely aware that I am falling to the ground as pain rushes through my body but I will not scream I will not scream I will not -

Then she pulls the taser away and the cramps stop instantly. Triumphantly I notice that I didn't make a sound. Mary smiles at me, which is even more chilling than Big Boy's longing glance. 

“See, Sherlock,” she says, “I will stop as soon as you feel like it's enough. All you have to do is tell me to stop.”

Which I won't. Because the moment that I tell her, she will have a reason to punish John. What a clever plot.

She smiles even wider now. “You really think you will remain silent for ever, don't you?”

Yes, I do. But without waiting for my answer she pushes the taser into my flank again and -

it hurts and hurts and goes on and on and my legs cramp and my arms and my neck and it hurts and hurts and my head hits the floor three times four five but I will not scream I will not scream -

Afterwards I remain on the floor, panting. When I can control my body again I raise my head to look at John. He looks like he is sick. His head is shaking in disbelief and there is an expression in his eyes I have seen very rarely. Pain and hatred. A fearful mix of emotions. 

Seeing that hurts me more than the taser.

Mary does not realise that the hatred is directed at her. She is still smiling, clearly enjoying her own clever plot. 

I get only a short break. Once my breathing has returned to normal, Mary kneels down next to me. She grabs my hair and pulls my head up until I am forced to look into her face. “Do you want me to stop, dear?” she asks and waits for a response. She won't be getting one.

After a few seconds she shrugs and uses the taser again.

And again.

And again.

Every time my body needs longer to recover. Every time I refuse to tell her to stop. After a while I lose track of how often I have been sent into agony. I am only vaguely aware of her asking me to tell her to stop again and again. At a certain point John's voice chimes in, begging her to stop, telling her she's killing me.

That might be true. I start getting dizzy. My heart is far from beating regularly. I am so exhausted that I no longer raise my head. Would she really kill me? Most likely. Would it be worth not talking? No. John would be forced to watch me die and whatever Mary could do to punish him for my talking, he would never consider it worse than watching me die (again). 

So when I am sure that I will not last much longer I finally give her what she wants. “Stop,” I say, my voice hoarse, “Please stop.”

The gleam in her eyes tells me that she enjoys her victory. Then something bitter shows on her features as well. Honest anger because I force her to hurt John. (Damn, she is even more insane than I thought.)

“See what happens when you talk,” she shouts at me and Big Boy lifts me so I have to watch. 

Mary reaches for the whip. Places herself next to John and hesitates. Then it seems like she has brought herself to do what is necessary. Her body tension shows nothing but determination when she swings the whip. The sound it makes when it hits John's bare skin will most likely stay in my mind for ever. 

I watch him swallowing a moan. Then the whip hits him again and he closes his eyes. The whip hits him again and he draws in a pained breath. He opens his eyes and looks at me. Determination in his eyes, grim and cold.

The whip hits him again and he cannot help but groan. Watching him is so much worse than being tasered. I want to look away but can't. I am the reason he is in pain now and I cannot even tell him how sorry I am. The least I can do is stay with him and hold his stare.

Even when it tears me up inside.

The whip hits him again and again and again and again and again. John's skin is broken by now. 

He screams for a while, then he starts to whimper instead. His eyes fall closed but I continue looking at him. His legs give in but the chains hold him in place. Then the whip hits him and he does not even whimper.

When Mary finally stops and turns around, she is panting, and tears are running down her face. “Why are you forcing me to do this?” she asks me accusingly. 

But it is not my fault. It is not … I know that it is not my fault. She left me with no choice. She is to blame. She alone. 

John moans again and tries to raise his head. At that Mary drops the whip to the ground and steps closer. Cups his face and presses a kiss on his cheek. (And makes sure she is standing slightly next to John so I can watch. My stomach churns.) 

“I'm so sorry, love,” she whispers, “So, so sorry.” She kisses him again and then she says, “It is all Sherlock's fault. I'm so sorry.”

John's eyes flutter open, and he blinks. Searches for me with his gaze and finds me. There is no accusation in it but pain and disgust for her.

Really for her?

Yes, of course. Of course for her. It is not my fault, no matter what she says. Not my fault and John knows it.

Doesn't he?

When I am sure that Mary is not looking at me I mouth, “Sorry”.

John shakes his head immediately, so intensely that Mary turns around to look at me. She is even more disgusted by me than John is by her. 

“Oh god, look at you,” she spits, “You caused him so much pain and now you can barely stand to look at him.” She turns around again, sighs and tells John, “It hurts him to watch you being in pain, John. Just like it hurts me. And do you know why we are both in pain now?” She strokes his hair, gentle and slowly. “Sherlock and I suffer now because we love you.”

Then she presses one last kiss on his cheek and leaves without looking back. Big Boy lets go of me and I slip to the ground, my muscles sore from the electric shocks. I am aware that I am chained to the ground again. In the process Big Boy touches me more often than necessary but I am too exhausted to give a damn.

I watch him unchain John. Watch John limply drop down. Watch Big Boy catch him and lower him to the ground. Watch him chaining John to the wall again but so loosely that he can remain lying but will be able to sit up later.

At the moment, he seems to be far from sitting up. 

When we are finally alone again, John looks at me. Exhausted. In pain. 

“This is not your fault” he says groggily. Then he closes his eyes again and almost instantly his body shuts down. A few unsteady breaths and then I can hear that he has fallen asleep. 

When I am sure that he has entered his slow-wave sleep phase I finally allow myself to cry.

Silently.

I am not sure if crying counts like talking but better err on the side of caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am always grateful for all who subcribed, give kudos or leave comments. Hope the next chapters won't scare you away.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all readers, old and new, and thanks for the many comments on last chapter. 
> 
> WARNING: Torture, physical and psychological, as well as a slightly mean cliff hanger.

When John wakes up, he is shaking with cold. Clearly in pain but trying to keep his composure. I follow his example but soon I realise that he sees through my façade. 

“You all right?” he asks, and I nod. He draws a face at my feeble attempt to lie non-verbally but his voice is warm when he goes on, “I know you tried to hold on as long as possible. You had to give in in the end.”

He really means it. I nod again and relax a little. Our eyes meet and there is no resentment in his glance at all.

“She will not be able to come between us, you know?” he says and I cannot help but feel warm inside. 

Does he know that our chances of escaping here are slim? Most likely. But he would never give up and neither would I.

The warm feeling inside stays for a while and after some time, John falls asleep again.

### 

John wakes up just seconds before Mary is back. No time for us to exchange information but I can tell from the way he sits up that his wounds hurt but not agonizingly so. 

Mary, on the other hand, is in a remarkably good mood. 

Big Boy is with her, carrying a tray in his hands and a folding table under his arm. For a second I am scared that there are torture devises on the tray but it turns out that they only brought food and gauze. Meaning: She intends to keep us here for quite a while and cares enough for John to treat his wounds.

(Well, I say care … Just like her idea of love, her idea of caring is a sick, perverted kind of feeling. But she is oblivious to it. She honestly thinks she loves John and takes good care of him.)

At a nod, Big Boy releases the ties around my wrists and my left ankle. Then he flops me around gracelessly and ties my ankle up again. He also ties up my wrists again, but I have more space to move my arms now. That way I am facing the ground, but could kneel if I wanted to.

Mary makes a big fuss about serving the soup for me in a dog's feeding bowl. She places it in front of me, pets my head and tells me to eat. Such a blunt attempt at humiliating me. It wouldn't even work if I were less hungry. She tells me I could eat with John at the table if I only told her that I'd want to. What a meticulous attempt to draw me out.

I don't dignify her poor effort with any kind of reaction and start eating instead. Not the first time I have to eat from the ground without using my hands. I do so without being humiliated at all. That this does not destroy her good mood makes me suspicious.

But instead of getting angry she only frowns at me mildly and then sits down next to John who was placed at the folding table by Big Boy. His hands are still tied together and Mary starts feeding him. Watching that is a lot worse than eating like a dog.

Nothing lasts forever, though. After a while, neither of us are hungry any more and Mary sends Big Boy away. 

He returns with something that looks like an old-fashioned washtub. Water splashes over the rim when he places it in front of me. I do my very best to keep a neutral expression on my face but the idea of this setting is clear. The washtub is deep enough to drown someone (me) in it.

Mary, who has chained John up at the wall once more, kneels down next to me. (Again, all is set so John has to watch. Brilliant, I cannot help but think.) “You know the rules, Sherlock,” she says, unable (or unwilling) to hide her amusement. “Big Boy here will dip you in again and again until you ask me to stop. Or, of course, until you have drowned.”

Before I can react to that, Big Boy grabs my head and pushes it under water.

I can hold my breath for nearly two minutes More than enough time to consider what to do. Mary will stick to the scenario as before. I will endure the dipping as long as I can and then give in, asking her to stop (if Big Boy does not accidentally drown me before, which is not unlikely). She will hurt John afterwards. 

And then I see the flaw of her rules: There is no reason to wait with asking to stop until I am completely exhausted. I can just ask her right now, she will hurt John, and we are done for now.

My feeling of triumph is soon swept away by the pressing need to breathe. Two minutes are over and my head is still under water. I surely can go on longer. Longer. Longer.

My lungs are burning now and against my resolution I start to panic. I fight against the hands that hold me down, start trying to shake them off my head, feel my body jerking (quickly wondering how terrible it must look for John), my legs kicking, my thoughts becoming erratic, my head jerking, my lungs burning and burning -

and suddenly there is air and I gasp and pant and my hair is wet and cold and I'm shaking and panting and finally there is enough air inside my lungs again and I can force my body to calm down.

Big Boy pulls me into a kneeling position again and there is Mary's face right in front of me. “You only have to say it, Sherlock,” she purrs, a satisfied half-smile on her (despicable) face. “Do you want me to stop?”

I try and erect my body a little more so I can look down at her. “Yes,” I answer (still a bit out of breath), “please stop.” I am sure that I am barely hiding my smug grin. 

She is surprised, completely stunned for a moment. Then her eyes turn hard. Murderous. “God,” she spits and gets up, “you think you are clever, don't you?”

(Yes, but this is probably a bad moment to tell her.)

She is beyond angry, her whole body tense, pure hatred emanating from every pore of her skin. She stands up, barely able to control herself, and gives Big Boy a cold look. “Kill him,” she says to him, and turns around. Does something to John I cannot see, something that makes him scream in pain.

Before I can give it another though, Big Boy grabs me and pushes me to the ground. Kneels on my chest and presses his enormous hands on my mouth and nose. I don't have any time to take a deep breath and this time it's less than two minutes before I feel like suffocating. 

Panic takes over again and I fight him with all I have but no matter what I do I cannot free myself. Before long my vision is blurring and my arms stop flailing, are barely twitching now and I can feel my body slacken before everything is covered in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank to my wonderful betas. All mistakes left are mine and mine alone. :-)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentioning of character death :-(

When I wake up I am a bit surprised to wake up at all. Still exhausted, I try to lift my head to look around. 

We are alone. John is tied to the chair again, his back facing towards me. (Clever. That way I can no longer communicate with him by facial expression.) His hands are slack. He is unconscious.

He has to be unconscious. He has to. The alternative is … He has to be unconscious.

Mary thinks she loves him, right? She wouldn't …

He is tied to the chair. She wouldn't do this if he was …

He has to be merely unconscious.

There is a little puddle of blood underneath the chair. Would fit a bleeding nose. Dried already. So I was out cold for more than four hours. She has beaten him, broken his nose and tied him to the chair again when he lost consciousness. 

He has to be unconscious.

I contemplate calling him but that would only cause him more pain. Not an option. Can I make any other kind of noise to wake him? I am tied to the ground with mountaineering cords. When I move my feet they barely produce a soft sound. Stomping my heels or the back of my hand onto the ground is not loud enough. The only thing I can to is bang my head on the concrete floor.

Bit not good but loud enough. I manage to do so four times before the pain gets too intense.

John does not move. 

There is nothing more I can do. John's fingers are still slack, his head still lolled to his chest. He is merely unconscious.

I am forced to stare at his back, wondering if he is … if he is still with me. For two hundred and eight minutes.

By the time his fingers start to twitch I am half-crazy with fear. He needs some time to come back to his senses, then moans a bit and starts looking around. Tries to look at me but cannot turn his head around far enough.

“Sherlock?” he asks, his voice suspiciously wavering.

I stomp my heel on the ground, hoping that the noise is loud enough for him to hear. (I would hate to bang my head again but am willing to do so if necessary.) His head snaps up. Good.

“Are you all right?” he asks. I stick to the simple one times means yes, two times means no code and tell him that yes, I am fine. (No need to let him know how scared I've been, right?)

“Me too” he offers. I stomp once more,only to let him know that I heard him. There is no way to say “I was scared for your life and love you more than you can ever know” by stomping your heels, so I let the change pass.

(Well, there is a way but would sending a message in Morse code equal speaking in Mary's little game? Again, I decide to err on the side of safety.)

“You don't want to risk using Morse code, right?” John asks then and I give him a single stomp. 

“Can you also say “No” with your heels?” he goes on and I can hear a little smile in his voice. Against my will, I have to giggle a bit. And stomp my heels two times. John giggles in return and my heart feels about three pounds lighter.

Of course, that's exactly when Mary comes in once more. A dangerous smile is on her face. Not good.

At least she is alone.

Could I talk, I would point out that if she'd really loved John, she surely shouldn't have fast, rough sex with Big Boy less than twenty minutes ago but there is no way to stomp that message, too. 

“Good morning, boys” she says cheerfully and goes on, “Still a bit early in the morning, but I had the most wonderful time at a lovely little night club in Romford just an hour ago.”

Romford. That's were Harry lives now. I see John tensing. Mary ruffles his hair, her back turned towards me (so I can't read her).

“Met your sister there, love,” she goes on. Her voice truly happy. “Killing her really cheered me up after the water-boarding disaster Sherlock caused.”

Is she telling the truth? John will want to know. I need to deduce if she tells the truth. Can't see her face but her voice should be enough. I need to deduce her.

Liar.

The one thing I deduced when meeting her the first time. And she is a good one, it later turned out. 

I have no idea if she is lying now or not. 

“Oh, it was clever,” she goes on. “There is this club she always goes to. Where people know she's having a teensy-weensy bit of a problem with alcohol.” 

John tenses further. He knew she had been drinking lately, but had been sure that she had stopped three month ago after seeing Emmi for the first time. No, need to stop deducing John. I try to blank out his emotions and concentrate on Mary.

“Funny thing is that she has really been nearly sober for a while now. Managed to have only one or two beers when going out. Yet, when she started feeling ill, everybody blamed her drinking habit.”

Mary turns around now, faces me. What a sick move. She wants me to deduce her. She wants me to try deducing her and fail. Which I do.

“Poor girl,” she goes on, smugness written all over her face, outshining every other emotion. “Realised she'd been poisoned. Begged the security guard to help her. Told him she was sober, that there must have been something in her drink. But with her voice slurring like that and her dizziness ...”

There is an unbearable triumph in Mary's voice now. It leaves me so sick that I want to puke. “He could have saved her life, you know? Had he called the ambulance, she would still be alive now. But instead, he brought her to the toilet. She nearly collapsed twice on the way there. Cried. Begged him to get help. But of course, he thought she had hit the bottom once more.”

I ignore the choking sound John makes, concentrating fully on Mary. But I cannot tell …

“In the loo, he helped her into one of the stalls. She sank down next to the toilet seat, crying hard. Tried to stand up once more but couldn't. Must have been terribly scared. And in pain. And do you know the best part?”

Mary's eyes have a feverish gleam now. Regardless if she is telling the truth or not, she is having the time of her life. “I watched her the entire time. When she collapsed inside the loo, I volunteered to help her. The security guard let me in and I took my time and watched her without hurry. And she recognized me. Tried to talk. Probably even knew I poisoned her. God, she was so helpless.”

Mary's cheeks are flushed, and I don't think I have ever felt that revolted.

“She tried to shake me off,” she finishes her cruel tale. “But my face was the last thing she saw. Trying to get away from me the last thing she did. And when her body stilled underneath my touch … That was real power.”

She smiles, honestly happy, and presses a kiss on John's head. “And all that simply because you loved her. I don't like to have rivals.”

With that, she leaves us alone, John's face still turned away from me.

And I don't know if she said the truth or not.

For a while (six minutes) I only listen to John's breaths. He is fighting for his composure, trying not to despair. Then he speaks up again, his voice wavering again, “Did she say the truth?”

I don't know.

No way to stomp that, so I remain silent.

“Sherlock,” John says again, pleads me to tell him. But I can't. I don't know, and that information is not worth causing him pain.

“Sherlock,” he repeats, more urgent now.

It breaks my heart.

“Sherlock, tell me.” He is nearly shouting now, his voice rising higher and higher while he goes on, “I need to know and I need you to tell me and I don't care that she will hurt me afterwards TELL ME SHERLOCK!”

“I DON'T KNOW,” I shout back, wondering if I'm crying or not and once I started, I cannot stop again. “I don't know, John. I'm sorry. But I don't know. I couldn't deduce her. I don't know. I'm sorry, but I don't know.”

Yes, definitely crying now. John on the other hand is completely silent now.

“I'm sorry, John.” I try again but he doesn't react.

Of course not. I have completely disappointed him and deserve the agony I'm feeling now. 

I know that it will get more agonising once Mary is back to hurt John for my talking. My ties are so short that I cannot even bring myself into a fetal curl and silently cry in peace.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING WARNING WARNING  
> Evil things are mentioned in this chapter. If you don't want to be spoiled, just read on. If you'd preferred to be properly warned, read the notes at the end of the chapter first. There are detailed warnings. (I shamelessly copied this idea from another fic I've read recently. I will include the author's name here as soon as I find it again.)

The next few days (or weeks? No, days) are a wild mixture of spending time alone and Mary playing her games. John does his best to get over not knowing if Harry is truly dead or not. I do my best to get over not knowing if John forgave me or not.

(He told me he did but has been lying when he said so. I never raised the topic again.)

Sometimes we can see each other, sometimes not. John gets punished for my blunders three more times, including the one when I told him that I don't know if Harry is dead or not.

After a while, I cannot help but detect a problem: I am no longer sure that we will make it out of here alive. Not good, that notion. When John asks me about it, I deny it. I don't dare to deduce if he believes me or not.

### 

Then one day Mary storms into our cell, clearly angry. Big Boy follows her, which is never a good sign. 

“It was supposed to be perfect,” she rants, angrily kicking me into my side. “It was supposed to be a highlight.” Her foot hits my side once more. It hurts like hell. I press my lips together as hard as possible to prevent myself from crying out and that only makes her angrier.

“I planned it. So carefully. And yet, it went wrong!” she still fumes. “You just can't make proper plans when children are involved! They always ruin everything.”

John's head snaps up and I see his eyes grow wide with fear. It matches the ice cold fist that suddenly has a hold on my stomach. 

Mary sits down on the floor next to John, who is tied to a chair once more. She absently pets his leg, when she explains, “Really, it started so perfectly. Finding out where Mummy and Daddy Holmes were hiding with Evelyn was easy.”

Evelyn. She completely ignored the fact that we didn't name Emilia Grace according to her wishes. Please let that mean that she cares for Emmi. Please!

“I had the plan of the cottage, knew when there was a shortage of body guards … It should have worked.”

She is dancing around telling us what happened, most likely to make us suffer with uncertainty. It works. The ice cold feeling that started in my stomach spreads through my entire body now. Is that what John felt when Mary told us about Harry?

“I wanted to sneak inside, surprise your parents in their sleep, play a little game with them and then kill one of them in front of the other. But NO!” she shouts, stretching out her leg to kick me once more. I barely notice the pain. Obviously there is no hope left for my parents' lives but please please tell us that you took Emmi with you, instead of ...

My eyes are burning and stealing a look at John, I can tell he is as devastated as me.

“I only had a thirty minute window but that baby never stopped crying.”

That baby. Not “Evelyn” but “that baby”. Emotional distance. Oh God please not.

“So instead of surprising your parents in their sleep I found them in the nursery. And that wailing …” Mary is furious, nearly shrieking now. “I couldn't think clearly any more. And your parents were so pathetic and I couldn't ...”

She draws in a deep breath, and I cannot tell if she tells us the truth or not but it doesn't look like a lie but it has to be it has to.

“God, in the end it was mess, with all the blood and the brain mass and all and the baby was still screaming like crazy.” She is looking directly at me now, when she goes on, “I HAD to silence her, hadn't I?”

Funny how you can simply stop feeling anything at all. 

“How?” John asks, voice shaking. He doesn't want to know but has to know anyway. He is still feeling something and it's nothing good.

“Pillow,” Mary explains with a shrug and pets John's leg once more before pulling herself up again. 

I can see it all on John's face, the pain, the hatred, the revulsion, the horror. Then the mourning that sweeps all other emotions away. If I still felt something myself, that look in his eyes would hurt me endlessly.

When she is already standing on the doorstep, she turns around and says airily, “Oh, as I am not in the mood for games with you boys today, I promised Big Boy that he could finally have some fun with Sherlock!”

With that she leaves. 

Then Big Boy is looming over me and I am kind of grateful for the absence of feelings right now, because I am sure that I would be frightened like hell and sorry for John who will be forced to watch.

Instead, I don't really register his hands that are trailing down my legs when he opens the ties around my ankles. I am not disgusted when he touches me, roughly and grunting. I am not embarrassed when my body reacts to his touch. I am not hurt when he starts to push so hard it feels like tearing me apart from within.

When the grunting goes on, I tune it out and when he doesn't stop pushing, I hide inside my mind palace, press my face into Redbeard's fur and wait for it all to be over.

### 

John's voice is the first thing I register afterwards. (How long after? No idea. Doesn't matter.) I can't understand him but there is distress in it and pleading and pain.

So much pain. More than enough for one lifetime. The only consolation right now is the fact that there will be no more pain soon. Maybe one more time but then there will finally be oblivion. Because there is only one thing left Mary could do to us that would be worse than killing Emmi. And that is killing one of us. Me, that is.

And John afterwards, when she realises that he will not love her anyway.

I am torn between being happy because I will not see John die and being horrified because John will watch me die. 

John's voice gets more and more distracting. When ignoring it becomes more exhausting than reacting, I slowly open my eyes. He is facing me, tied to the chair again, his eyes red, marks of tears on his cheeks. His voice is raw. Has been talking to me for a long time, apparently.

“... please, Sherlock, listen to me, please.”

He stops when our eyes meet and (for some reason I cannot understand) there is relief written all over his face now. 

“You are with me now, right?” he asks and I nod. “I need you to promise me something,” he goes on, and it is Captain Watson talking to me now. Determined, controlled, convinced. Where does he find the strength for that kind of talk?

I nod again because I am in no condition to disobey him anyway.

“I want you,” he starts, stops, thinks about it again, then starts again, “I want you to hold on.” When I don't react instantly, he explains, “I want you to promise me that you won't give up. No matter what Mary will do to us next, no matter what will ...” His voice breaks and he needs a moment to regain control. 

“No matter what, I want you to promise that you will hold on as long as possible.”

Which is exactly what I don't want to do. I have to avert my eyes, consider his request. All I want is for this ordeal to be over. What good is it to prolong our suffering? What good would it do to John if watching me die lasts longer than necessary? If he loves me, how can he ask that of me?

But he loves me, of that I am sure. And I owe him more than I can say. If this is really what he wants, if this is what he needs …

If it is for him, I will hold on. 

I look up again and nod, slowly but steady.

“No,” John says, “I need to hear it.”

The panic in my eyes must be visible, for he flinches a bit but says again, “I need to hear it from you, Sherlock. I need you to promise me.”

It's been a while since I last talked and I need to start several times before I manage to whisper, “I promise you to hold on as long as I can.”

There is grim satisfaction on his face now. “Good,” he says, and after a while, he opens his mouth again to tell me something, but then decides against it.

I deduce that he wanted to say “I love you”, but that makes no sense. Why would he hold that back?

We spend the following hours in silence, anticipating the disaster that lies ahead. I would love to be able to embrace him but that seems not likely. It is strange to think that I will never kiss him again in my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Mentioning of (even more) character deaths, including Baby Watson. There is a short paragraph about male rape and mentioning of suicidal thoughts. Please do not read if any of this triggers anything for you. 
> 
> Eternal thanks to the best three betas in the world, and thanks to all who are reading, commenting, subscribing and / or leaving kudos. Hope you've had a wonderful Christmas time.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and painful. See notes at the end for important trigger warnings.
> 
> Sorry about the cliff hanger.

Again, some hours pass. Neither my body nor my soul find real rest. There are cramps in my muscles from not moving for far too long and my brain does not stop picturing ways Mary will end my life.

When I am able to stop thinking about that I start mourning again, which is not better. For the first time in my life, I wish I would believe in some kind of afterlife, where families get reunited and your loved ones are always with you. 

But no matter how much I try, I cannot believe in that. Instead all I can do is grieve for Emmi and my parents and Mycroft and Harry. 

I wish I could say that John feels the same but there is still grim determination on his face. As for why, I don't know. All I know is that I no longer have the strength to pretend to be hopeful. I hope he can forgive me.

When Mary and Big Boy finally come back, I am relieved. 

They don't bring along gruesome torture instruments. Only a rope. Without further looking at me, Big Boy ties one end to the ceiling. With the other, he forms a noose. Knowing how I will die brings a strange kind of peace to my mind. I will have to hold on, of course, I promised. But all in all, it cannot last that long.

Except that the noose is not hanging high enough to hang me. 

Mary has a cold gleam in her eyes. She is standing next to John, caressing his hair. “I have to punish you because he talked when I was away, you know” she says, regret in her voice. Then, so fast that I nearly miss the movement, she strikes out and hits him so hard that his chair topples to the ground.

His head hit the floor hard and yet … There is a look in his eyes, as if he is exactly where he wanted to be.

I don't have time to think about it as Big Boy starts dragging me up. My legs feel wobbly from being tied to the ground too long but I manage to stand on my own. And now I realise that the noose is exactly on a level with my neck. It is only too low to hang me as long as I remain standing.

She has surely heard us talking about not giving up and constructed an endgame that will kill me the moment that I do. That way, I will not only die but also disappoint John one last time. 

I search for his eyes and find them. “You promised,” he says and I nod. 

Mary sighs. She sits down and places John's head on her lap. “He won't be able to last long, dear,” she tells him, stroking his hair. “Sooner or later he will give up and then he will die. And then everybody you loved but me will be gone.”

The grim determination in his eyes only grows stronger when Big Boy places the noose around my neck and tightens it. The end is inevitable now. But I will hold on. I promised.

Knowing that my blood pressure is likely to crash from standing still, I start to step from one foot to the other. Neither Mary nor Big Boy do anything to stop me. She doesn't mind me delaying my death.

After a while, she sends Big Boy away, telling him she wants to enjoy the endgame alone. 

I am still standing but my legs are shaking a little. I can see that John is fidgeting a little but does not avert his eyes. I decide that when I will not be able to stand any longer I will try and twist a bit so I won't have to face him watching my death.

After another while, I start sweating. Exhaustion is spreading all through my body but I won't give up. My whole body is trembling and I can barely step from one toe to the other. But I will hold on.

John's face is still set on determination. 

I think of Mycroft again. How he had clung to me when he was shot. Would he also be disappointed if I gave up now? 

Mary is constantly talking to John but I don't listen. I also try to ignore the way she is touching his head, possessively and obtrusive. I concentrate on his eyes instead. Those wonderful eyes. 

My blood pressure is indeed sinking. I close my eyes, only for a second. It won't be long now. When I open them again, I see the fear on Jon's face. I wish he would not have to watch.

I also wish he would let me give in. I have to blink. Could be that there are tears in my eyes. Not sure. I sigh. Exhausted, completely. Tired. Please, John.

We look at each other for what could be hours but must be minutes. And then suddenly, his fidgeting stops. The look in his eyes changes. To what, I cannot tell. I am drenched in sweat, beyond pain. 

And then he gives me a slight nod. 

Oh God. I should be scared, I think, or sorry or devastated. But all I can feel is immense relief. Not sure but I am probably smiling when I nod in return. I look at him one last time.

Then I close my eyes and finally, finally allow my legs to give in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning. Suicidal thoughts, angst, angst, angst. 
> 
> Thanks to my three wonderful betas for being with me.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, see the notes at the end for warnings.
> 
> All the love to my lovely betas! <3

The noose tightens the moment my body sags down, and I am unable to breathe. But there is no panic this time. It will be over soon. It will be …

Then I hear the noise somewhere behind me. Fighting. Mary killing John? I squint my eyes shut. Don't want to see it. Getting dizzy. Over soon. Someone screaming. Don't look. Again a scream but different now, gargling. Have I heard John dying? Over soon. Please, let it be over soon.

Need air. Can't breathe. Don't want to. Feel my body jerking. Steps coming closer. (No!) Dizzy, dizzy. 

Steps reaching me (no no no). And then …

and then my body hits the ground. (How?) The rope is removed. (Impossible!) I gasp and retch and breathe (Another game? God, no!) and don't open my eyes because I couldn't stand seeing her. A hand on my head, soft. Caring.

John?

Opening my eyes requires an enormous amount of energy. And there he is, hovering over me, looking at me with unconcealed concern. And a tiny bit of triumph. Blood on his shirt. 

“Sherlock, are you with me?”

Am I? I think so, even though it takes some time to realise that I am. I try to raise my head to see what happened but my body doesn't obey. Not yet. So instead, I just pant and wait for my strength to return. Concentrate on what John is babbling about the entire time.

“She is dead, Sherlock. It's over. We'll be out here in no time. Relax. It's over.”

Over? I have been so sure I'd die that I am having trouble accepting our survival. And there is Big Boy, still somewhere outside the room. 

“Can you get up?” John asks, and I need to consider that one too. Turns out that I can't. So instead he helps me into a sitting position, half leaning against him. It's been days since we last touched each other. Would be content just to sit like that, my naked back against the upper part of his body. Heat emanating through the thin shirt he was allowed to wear. 

When the room stops spinning, I look up and see Mary's body lying on the ground. Her eyes open, her face expressionless. Blood underneath her, soaking her hair. Her cut throat gaping open. 

Now the fidgeting I have watched starts to make sense. John has not been waiting, he has been freeing himself. (Ropes that were strained already? Using a splinter? A carelessly tied knot?) And he did not allow me to give in. He ordered me to create a diversion so he could overpower her. (With her own knife? She was always having it with her. Or wasn't she? I don't know.)

I cannot avert my eyes from her corpse. 

His hand on my neck. “I need to handle Big Boy before he gets suspicious,” John explains. “Can I leave you here for a moment?”

Yes, of course. I wouldn't be of any help in my current state, still too weak to stand on my own. So before leaving without me, John makes sure that I'm leaning against the wall so I won't collapse. 

My eyes follow him out of the room and then fix on Mary once more. Something about her corpse is bothering me but I don't know what. Maybe the fact that I actually enjoy seeing her like that.

Then I realise what is wrong. I cannot deduce how exactly John has killed her. He must have used her knife of course, but did he hesitate when slicing her throat open? I should be able to tell from the wound but can't. Did he stand up to kill her or did he finish her while lying on her lap? Did she put up a fight?

No matter how hard I concentrate on the blood stains on the wall and the way the body is placed and the way John's ties are arranged on the ground, I cannot see how it happened. 

Before I can worry about it, John is back. Is there more blood on his shirt than before? No idea. But there is a certain satisfaction in his eyes.

“He's dead,” he announces, and that is all I need to hear. “We are alone, in a little hut in the woods,” John explains then. “I haven't seen a phone upstairs, but I am sure Mary is carrying her mobile.”

Without hesitation he approaches her body and fishes for her mobile. Finds it in one of her trouser pockets. 

“No signal down here,” he tells me. “Come on, we need to get you upstairs anyway. There are blankets to keep you warm and I really want to leave this room for good.”

Brilliant idea. John more or less manhandles me until I am standing, my legs trembling. No idea how he manages it, but after a while we make it upstairs.

I take a broad look at the room and again fail to deduce details of what had been going on here. But Big Boy is dead, definitely. Looks like his head is smashed worse than necessary. That is all I can tell. Why does my deduction lack details? Shock? Probably.

Before long, John lowers me on a sofa and covers me with a blanket. Then he sits next to me, allows me to lean against him once more, and dials a number he seems to have learned by heart. Puts the call on speaker so I can hear as well. Only one ring, then the call is answered.

“Captain Watson, what a relief to hear from you,” the voice on the other end of the line says instead of a greeting. Mr. Super Secret.

John quickly explains our situation and is assured that a rescue team will be sent at once along with an ambulance. Might take a moment because the GPS of Mary's mobile tells Mr Super Secret that we are far out in the woods.

“There is something else, sir,” John says after reporting roughly what happened to us. (Turns out we have been missing for two weeks only. Seemed much longer to me.) 

John needs to collect himself, squeezes my hand, then says,, “We have been told that Mary has ...” His voice breaks. He starts again, “That Mary has killed our daughter, as well as Sherlock's parents and my sister. Do you know if ...”

He cannot finish his sentence, looks at me instead. (His sadness and hope and fear and hope again are overwhelming me. All I can do is cling to his hand.) We can hear some hushed murmur, then some more. It goes on for a while. Then Mr Super Secret is back on his phone. 

“I have collected reports from several agents. I am sorry to tell you but it seems that your sister has died from alcohol poisoning in a club three days ago.” I watch John's face run through more emotions than I can identify. (Painful.)

“But,” Mr Super Secret goes on, “The reports coming in from Sussex are clear. Your daughter is fine, so are Mr and Mrs Holmes.”

John gasps and our eyes meet. The expression on his face matches the turmoil in my guts. Only very slowly does a smile spread on his face, but once it is there, it radiates a warmth that heats up my cold body. She lied to us. They are alive!

It is all right for me to cry in a situation like that. I know that because John is crying too. We should probably get ourselves something to eat while waiting for the ambulance, or at least something to drink but neither one of us seems to feel like getting up. Instead, we remain huddled against each other.

After some time, we hear the sirens of two ambulances as well as the arrival of several cars. (can't tell how many, but anyway.) John only moves away from me when gently forced by the paramedics. 

He throws a tantrum when they try to separate us and only calms down again when we are placed inside the same ambulance. They will bring us to a nearby hospital to take care of our wounds. No need to stay for long, they say, maybe just one night to be sure.

At the hospital we are both examined thoroughly, our blood is taken, our blood pressure measured, John's statement is written down and finally finally we are alone in a hospital room.

John gets up immediately again and sits down on my bed. Holds my hand, places his other hand protectively on my neck.

“You understand that Mary is gone, don't you?” he asks concerned.

Of course I do. 

He looks at me closely, so very closely. Then he swallows and goes on, “Then you also know that it is all right for you to speak again, right?”

Of course it is. No need to be silent now that she is gone. It was a mind game, that's all. A cruel and efficient one, but one that definitely ended when she died. Of course I can talk again without doing harm.

And I will surely say something soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character deaths I am not sorry for. ;-) Suicidal thoughts, violence.
> 
> Unfortunately, I am still writing the next chapter, so it could be that I will not be able to update next Friday already. Sorry.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings this time. Well, no warnings regarding violence or stuff. I've been told that you need one or two handkerchiefs for this chapter. But then, you are all rather used to that by now, right?

When the night nurse has looked after us one last time, I carefully sneak into John's bed. His body is hurt, just like mine, and I try not to cause more pain. But there is no way I can abstain from feeling his body heat for one more second. John doesn't lean into my (soft) embrace the way he used to (probably because he doesn't want to hurt me), but he doesn't reject me either.

He falls asleep soon, and after an hour he turns around in his sleep, facing me. This is the first time I really observe. There are dark circles underneath his eyes. Wrinkles on his face that were not there two weeks ago. The broken nose is already healing, and it will remain slightly crooked. He is pale.

I place my chin on his head, carefully avoiding touching his nose with my chest, and close my eyes. His breath tickles my skin, and I fall asleep within seconds.

### 

When I wake up again, it is dawning outside. John has moved away from me as far as possible and is watching me concernedly. “Good morning,” he whispers, “are you all right?”

I think I am, so I nod. 

Something in his face changes, and his eyes show (concern? disappointment? sadness? I don't know.) It disappears as fast as it came. 

“You still don't feel like talking, do you?” he asks gently, and I shake my head. It is difficult, even though I do not understand why. It makes him (sad? hurt? impatient?).

Apparently there is something wrong with my deduction skills as well. I hate to admit, but I will need Mycroft's help to ... But he won't help me, of course. He is dead. Just like Harry and Emmi and …

No, not Emmi. Not my parents. 

I need to close my eyes to get it together. Too much pain, too much worry, too little hope for far too long. Too many lies, too many mind games.

My head is swirling, only John's hand on my back stops me from falling into the abyss that is waiting inside my mind. I lean against it, heavily. We remain that way until a nurse comes in to check on us. I hope that John's hand will return to my back once she is gone, but it doesn't.

### 

Later, a psychologist comes to see us. She tries to talk to me. It only takes five minutes until I am soaked in sweat. John drives her away.

### 

Later, another doctor comes and talks to John who instantly tenses. I try to glare at the young doctor to make him leave. I think it works.

### 

Later, another doctor comes. She tells us that we need to go to an examination room so there can be more tests. When we both stand up, she informs us that John needs to come with her first and that I will be examined later. I panic. John makes it clear that we are leaving immediately.

### 

A cab takes us home. I am holding John's hand. He is looking grim.

### 

When we enter our flat, my parents are there. Mrs Hudson sitting together with them (has been crying). Emmi is on mummy's lap. She smiles at us when we come closer. I step closer to pick her up. John doesn't. 

All of them react differently to us. Mummy is all fussing worry. Daddy is calm sadness. Emmi is cooing happily. Mrs Hudson is pretending not to cry and pets my head constantly.

John, on the other hand, is strangely reserved. (Trying not to lose control?) I try to take in all of their reactions at once. It is overwhelming. I have to stop before it becomes too much to stand.

### 

They ask me things and I can't bring myself to answer.

### 

Later, we are alone. 

(I don't know how long they stayed. I lost complete track of the time. I was too busy trying and failing to deduce the easiest things while trying to communicate without talking.)

When John brings Emmi to bed, I pick up my violin …

and then I am just standing there. I cannot bring myself to play a single note.

In my mind I can see John being sad for me. Unbearable. I put the violin away and pretend I have been sitting in front of my laptop the whole time.

### 

The next day starts with early crying by Emmi and the eerie feeling that things are almost back to normal. Only that I don't speak, of course. But all the rest is strangely normal. Feeding Emmi, changing her nappies, John in the kitchen, preparing tea and breakfast.

When he says “Good morning, you two” Emmi smiles at him, and so do I. He waits for a moment and then nods. Claps my arm lightly and goes on talking to Emmi and me, as if one of us could answer.

This is how we go on for a few days. 

### 

After two days and one serious misunderstanding, he places a sheet of paper and a pen in front of me. “I know you have trouble talking, but what about writing?” he asks.

When I just stare at the sheet, he goes on, “Write down what you'd like to eat tomorrow. I'll be right back.”

I take the pen and want to start, but my hand somehow gets stuck right above the paper. Because down at the core of it, isn't writing just like speaking? Would it be cheating if I wrote down something? 

Well, but it doesn't matter. Mary is dead.

My hand refuses to move. After a few minutes, I am soaked in sweat and my hand is shaking. There is still not a single word written down on that blasted sheet of paper.

When John returns from the loo he looks at me and fights hard not to be disappointed.

I can stand his sad eyes for three seconds. Then I grab my coat and leave the flat.

When I return several hours later, the sheet has disappeared.

### 

John quickly comes up with a sophisticated way to ask me for my opinion. He reduces everything down to yes and no questions, sometimes a lot of them. When he wants to cook, for example, he lists up a huge number of things (“Do you want rice or noodles? Rice? No? Noodles? Yes? Noodles with mushrooms, salmon or bolognese? Mushrooms? No? Salmon? Yes? Good.”) It is rather tiresome, and I start wanting the first or second thing he suggests, no matter what.

###   
In the beginning, some people drop by to visit us. Lestrade, Molly, Yasmin. Janine.

There is always pity leaking from them, so much that it is always close to drowning me. Luckily, they always feel so uncomfortable in my (silent) presence that those visits stop after a while.

### 

When I accidentally choose rice with prawns John understands what I am doing. He gets angry. All I can do is look at him apologetically. Which is stupid, really. I am the one who would have been forced to eat something he doesn't like, not John.

But somehow my being sorry makes him even angrier. He starts yelling at me, and when I fail to defend myself he leaves the flat. On his way out he bangs the door close so hard that Emmi wakes and throws a tantrum. (Good girl. That way I have to concentrate on her. Less time to think about this stupid fight.)

When John comes back after more than three hours, his eyes are red. He embraces me (shortly) and apologises. "I just cannot stand seeing you like that," he explains later on, Emmi on his lap. I think he wants to say more but doesn't. Not sure if it's just my defective deduction skill or if there is really more on his mind. Annoying.

### 

More often than not I wake up in my bed alone. We always go to sleep together, me leaning against any part of John I can get hold on, but when I wake up he is always gone. After the first time I looked at him questioningly, and he told me that he woke up way too early and didn't want to disturb me.

I wish I could tell him that I'd prefer to be woken by him rather than waking up alone.

### 

Emmi is the only one who doesn't seem to mind my silence. She spends hours in my arms without feeling pity for me. John must know how much that means to me, for he lets me take care of her nearly all the time.

### 

When I try to find some sleep, my exhausted mind sends me to my mind palace instead. I am standing in front of the door that has always been leading me to my sanctum, to my very own place of tranquillity and peace. Until, of course, until I opened the door after being shot, trying to calm down to avoid dying from shock. That day, Mary had been waiting there, dressed up as a bride, weapon pointing at me. I have never been able to open that door again.

That memory makes me stop in front of the door now, hand resting on the handle.

“She won't be there,” a voice from behind me says. My inner Mycroft. I am torn between happiness about being with him and annoyance at his arrogant tone. “Actually,” he goes on, “you will find that she has left your mind palace for good the moment John cut her throat open.”

Can I believe that? Of course. It's Mycroft. He knows things. That's what he does. Did. Anyway. She is gone for good. The enormous amount of relief is overwhelming. But my hand is still stuck on that door handle. I try to open the door, but it is locked. I let my hand sink down and turn away.

“That is how you handle things these days, isn't it?” Mycroft states. (I almost forgot how arrogant he could be.) 

Before I can give his comment any thought, he goes on, “You cannot open the door, so you simply turn away. You cannot play the violin, so you simply let it rot in the corner. You cannot speak, so you simply remain silent. You cannot stand to think about how broken John is, so you simply ignore it. When did you become such a coward?”

Hearing this hurts (because it is true). But John is not broken. He cannot be broken. He saved us and is trying to fix me now. How can he be broken? I try to deduce from memory (but fail again).

“You cannot deduce how broken John is, so you simply stop thinking about it at all,” inner Mycroft chides coldly. I try to will him away (no matter how happy I am about his company), but he stays. “You don't have to deduce that hard to find out what is wrong with him, “ Mycroft continues, “Just think, Sherlock! For once just think.”

When I fail to come up with a helpful thought, he sighs (quite histrionically) and asks, “Why don't you talk?”

Easy. Because Mary messed up with my mind.

“How so?”

That one is easy, too. She demonstrated how people get hurt when I speak. 

“Did she tell John the same?”

No.

“What did she tell him instead?”

That people get hurt because …

Oh.

That people get hurt because he loves them, and they love him.

And all of a sudden, my mind delivers several observations from the last few days. John doesn't touch me when he can avoid it. He leaves bed when I have fallen asleep. He lets me handle Emmi as often as possible. He stopped himself from saying “I love you” at the cellar when forcing me to promise. 

The smile Mycroft gives me now is a sad one. “Do you still believe it is possible that John made it out of that cellar unharmed, little brother?”

I wake up with a start. I am afraid I might have woken John, but the space next to me is empty (once more). When I sneak into the living room, I find John sleeping on the sofa (once more). It is crystal clear now. John is not sleeping there to avoid disturbing me. He is sleeping there because he cannot stand the fact that I love him.

The urge to reach out and touch him is overwhelming. When I softly stroke his cheek, he sighs in his sleep and turns away from my touch. Even in his sleep he cannot allow himself to be loved.

Inner Mycroft was right (of course). John, my John, stubborn, sturdy, strong John is damaged. Strongly bent, if not broken. And I myself am so broken I cannot even think of a way to fix him.

I sit by his side (undetected) for several hours and ponder our desperate situation. One thing is clear to me now: We are destined to fail, but too stubborn to give up.

So when he is close to waking up, I sneak back into my bedroom. The next day, we stumble on, pretending that we are both carrying on, pretending that there is a chance we will make it against all odds. 

Knowing that we won't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and hugs to my wonderful betas.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who needed two handkerchiefs last time might need three today. 
> 
> Thanks to my three betas GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzi. I hope you know how much your support means to me.

The problem is that once I saw how broken he is, I cannot un-see the signs that prove it. I see the circles underneath his eyes that grow darker because he doesn't sleep enough. I see that he does not kiss me or touch me because he doesn't dare to love me any longer. I see that he lets me feed Emmi and take her to bed and change her nappies because he doesn't dare to love her êither. And I see that he sees it, too, and suffers.

And it hurts me to see him like that, knowing that I cannot help him. And he sees that, too, and it hurts him even more.

And he sees how broken I am. He sees that I no longer play the violin because I cannot bring myself to stop considering music as communication. He sees how I flinch when his mobile rings because people no longer call me, knowing I won't be able to answer. He sees how I try not to look at him longingly when I miss being close to him. He sees all that and it hurts both of us that he does.

We are definitely destined to fail. 

For a while, we manage to stumble along but in the end it doesn't take much to tip the scales. It starts when Emmi hits her head on a toy block when she manages to turn from her belly to her back. I try to comfort her but (for the first time) she clearly stretches out her arms for John. He is as surprised as I am and takes her without complaint. (Too surprised to find an excuse, maybe.)

For the next hour, she refuses to be held by me and clings to John instead. He holds her, plays with her but tenses with every passing minute. Then Emmi grows tired and becomes crotchety and fidgety but still refuses to come to me. So John tries to remain calm. It wears him out rather soon. He is in the kitchen with her, trying to wash her sticky hands when his mobile rings. And rings. And rings.

“God, can you answer it?”, John shouts without thinking - and we both freeze.

Because I can't, really. It is an unknown caller who would surely not know what to make of it if his call is answered by nothing but silence. After a second, I recover from that little panic attack. When I finally find a solution to the problem (I could get the mobile, put the call on speaker and hold it in front of John) after two more seconds, the mobile stops ringing.

John turns around to face me, emotions running across his face. He opens his mouth (to be angry with me) and closes it again. He opens his mouth once more (to apologise) and closes it again. He starts fidgeting and after a moment he snaps and storms out of the flat with Emmi in his arms.

They stay away for more than two hours. 

There is a lot you can fail to do in two hours. You can fail to deduce who had called John. (Client? Most likely.) You can fail to play the violin once more. You can stare at your mobile and in the end fail to type a text saying “Please come home”. You can fail to calm down.

When they finally come back, I instantly see something has changed in John. (Even with my deduction skills still down. He is emanating change out of every pore of his body.) He is serious and calm. There is something absolutely not good about it.

Emmi is sleeping in John's arms. He places her in his chair (She is nearly too tall to lie on it. When did she grow that much?) and sits on the sofa. “Please sit down, Sherlock,” he says. 

I don't want to. I want to tell him to stop being that serious. I want to tell him that everything will be all right eventually. I want to hold him and kiss away whatever it is that he intends to tell me now. But I can't and so I simply sit down next to him.

He reaches out for my hand and takes it in both of his. The first time he initiates physical contact in more than a month. That should be good. Why does it still feel like disaster is going to strike any second? “Sherlock,” he starts, and stops again. Purses his lips, looks at his feet, takes a deep breath. 

“Sherlock, I can't ...” No, this is not going to end well. I shake my head, trying to signal him to stop but he is determined. “Sherlock, I can't go on like that. It's not ...” His voice breaks and it is perfectly all right for me to be close to tears because he is, too. He caresses my hand, avoids my glance. How can he be so tender when he is about to shatter everything we have?

“It does not get any better and I don't see …” No no no. 

“Please don't think it is your ...” Please not. There is a single tear running down his cheek and I concentrate on it because there is no way I could stand looking into his eyes now.

“I … I need ...” To get away from me. 

The terrible thing is that I understand him. He is damaged so deeply that my own damage is too much for him to handle. If he leaves now, there is the oh so slight chance that he will make it. 

Understanding does not stop me from shattering, though. I try to nod, try to let him know that I understand. He also nods. I tell myself fiercely that I can handle it. He has to take his time. And when he is all right again, or better at least, he will come back and we can …

“The remover will be here soon,” he goes on and my head snaps up. I cannot help but stare at him. Removers? What do we need removers for? How long is he going to stay away? 

And then I see it in his eyes. (What a terrible moment for my deduction skills to start working again.) He does not really believe that he will heal. He does not believe he will return.

It is incredible how much you can break when you thought you were broken already.

Then suddenly the removers are there, and then his things are gone, and Emmi's things, and then the removers are gone, and John is standing in the living room with Emmi in his arms they will be gone soon, too, and I don't know how I am supposed to handle goodbye. 

“I am sorry,” John whispers, and he really is. He allows me to hug him one last time, and I manage to kiss Emmi goodbye and pet her hair and they are gone, too. 

I remain standing in the living room for nearly an hour. Then (without thinking) I pick up my violin because playing is how I deal with pain but as always the bow stops just before it would touch the strings and the pain gets worse and worse. When I turn around, my eyes fall on the chair that will never be John's chair again and I become so angry that my hands start shaking. Before I know what I am doing, I am smashing the violin against the armrest, again and again and again and I don't even stop when the instrument is completely shattered.

I only stop because Mrs Hudson comes in. My anger is burned away, and my legs buckle, and suddenly I am crying in her arms, and she is soothing me, and I cry out my pain at losing John and losing Emmi and losing the violin Mycroft gave me after rehab and losing Mycroft and losing my voice.

Later I briefly wonder if it is a good sign that I was not crying silently but with loud sobs, but I am too heartbroken to give it much thought.

### 

Time loses meaning afterwards. I know that I spend the first night crying, but after that, all days blur together like wet colours on canvas. Well, colours … A paralysing artwork made of grey and gainsboro and darkslategrey and black.

I spend days on the sofa, bringing my brain into an empty non-thinking state. 

I spend other days walking around London, non-thinking, unseeing.

I spend days not knowing what I am doing, only realizing that somehow, between waking up and falling asleep, I have somehow moved, at least from one room to another.

I spend days looking around the flat aimlessly, only to accidentally find a sock or a toy block or a dummy that was left behind. Those days are the worst.

On the last day I spend walking around London, I am deeply lost in non-thought when I feel someone yanking at my coat. Violently. I stumble, nearly fall back and then there is shouting and a horn, and only then do I realise that I nearly ran in front of a bus. 

My brain starts working again, briefly. The bus was driving with a speed of 32 miles. It would have hit me right into my left side. I myself was moving with about 6 miles, so the impact would have smashed my head before my body would have been slung onto the other lane. Traffic on that lane: high. Chance of survival: zero.

My unknown life saviour is still holding my arm, speaking at me in a high pitched voice. I try to free myself politely, try to thank her without words and soon the endless stream of pedestrians part us and she is gone. I continue my walk for a long time. There is a turmoil inside of me but I cannot put my finger on what it is that I am feeling. Thankfully, my brain moves back into non-thought state.

Then suddenly a thought hits me with the brutal force of an unpleasant epiphany. 

My legs buckle and I only barely reach a nearby bench before my body starts shaking violently. There is a ringing in my ears that goes on for a long time. It could be that I even threw up in public but if I did, I immediately deleted that memory again, so I cannot tell. The taste in my mouth hints at it, anyway.

I was angry at that woman. For a moment, when I realised that I nearly died, I was angry at her for saving me.

I don't know for how long I have been sitting on that bench before I feel strong enough to raise a cab to take me home.

Home.

Not a home any more, only empty rooms. Rooms that suffocate me, filled with memories that drown me. Unbearable.

I sit down on the sofa and take refuge in my mind palace, where Mycroft is waiting for me already. He is looking sad (once more, no surprise here). “What are you doing here, little brother?” he asks, knowing exactly what I will answer.

So I ignore him and turn to the door that has once promised a peace of mind. As always, it is locked. 

When I give up and turn around again, Mycroft is still there. He shakes his head. “Look at how much you have changed since I died. You have never been a quitter before,” he states. 

But this is unfair. I might give up a bit too easy but I am still here, right? I might have been angry at being saved but I did not attempt to kill myself on purpose, right? 

Mycroft gives me a sardonic smile. “Oh please. The most observant man in the country does not see a huge red bus right next to him?”

He has a point there but as always that does not make it better. 

I look at the closed door once more. “What is behind it?” Mycroft asks. Oh, as if he doesn't know. He smiles, “Of course I know. But you are missing an important point of what's behind that door. So tell me, where does that door come from?”

Damn. Mycroft can still catch my attention by being cryptic, even though he is dead. I sulk but play along. 

The door is a real door, taken from my memory. 

“What memory?”

Holidays. Summer holidays with our parents, always leading back to a little island abroad, years and years in a row.

“And where does the door lead to?”

Outside. It leads into the garden of our house there. From the garden, you can see the ocean and the beach, smell the salt water and hear the sea gulls.

“A soothing place for you, right?”

Yes. I first came here in my mind palace when Redbeard died. Without that garden I would not have made it through rehab once.

While I am waiting for the next question, Mycroft is waiting for me to understand something. But what? 

When I fail to come up with something intelligent, he asks, “When was the backyard destroyed?”

Now I am confused. What a strange question. We stopped travelling there when I grew too old for family holidays, but as far as I know, the house still exists,, most likely still belongs to my parents even, and so does the backyard.

Once more, Mycroft waits. And then I see what he is trying to tell me. Of course. The backyard still exists. I can no longer access the place in my mind. But I could go to the real backyard.

I would have to leave …

“Baker Street?” Mycroft asks, his voice soft, and he goes on, “Or John? Do you want to be here in case he comes back?”

I can't help biting my lip. Yes. I want to be here, in case ...NO, I want to be here if, I mean, when John comes back. 

“Do you really think you can heal here, going on like that?” Mycroft implores. “What if John does really come back one day? He should not find you like this, right?”

No, he shouldn't. 

### 

It takes twenty-eight minutes to make Mrs Hudson come upstairs, look at my laptop and understand what I want. (Opening tabs on your laptop is not really communication, right?) It takes another thirty-two minutes for her to make the necessary phone calls and fifteen minutes for me to pack all I need (not much). Eighteen minutes cab ride to the car rental service (a mini cooper, because daddy's cars were always too small for us back then), and five minutes between signing the contract (signing is not communication either, right?) and starting to drive out of town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it is finally time for things to get better. Hang on. :-)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to GoSherlocked, katzedecimal and Grizzy for beta-ing, support and kind words. You are the best.

I take the same route we always took when going on summer holidays. I don't know why, but I know that it is vital to take the same route. First to Dover, then taking a ferry to Calais, then passing Belgium and the Netherlands before heading to the north of Germany, where another ferry will take me to the little island where we used to spend our summer holidays. It's a fifteen hour trip, mostly over night.

Leaving London takes quite a while. 

I love the city, always did. And whenever I left it for a while (or for two painful years) I was always more than happy to come back. But today, the city I usually love seems to stretch a like a cancer, not willing to let me go, trying to force me back mile by mile that I fight to leave it behind. I know that technically, I have left London already, but the suburbs don't seem to end.

(Had John felt the same when he left? I suspect him to be in Scotland, but am not sure. He has not sent a single sign of life since he left Baker Street.)

After nearly an hour, I have finally passed Sidcup and the houses are slowly replaced by fields and trees. Finally, it feels like my head has enough space to relax a bit. 

When I look into the rear view mirror, I see myself sitting on the back seat of daddy's old car, at the age of seven. Mycroft is sitting next to me, age fourteen. I remember that year clearly. Little Me is old enough to know that there is a long journey ahead but young enough to be distracted. 

Unfortunately, Mycroft is way too old to enjoy appropriate distractions. “I certainly will not spend my precious time playing Yellow Car,” I hear him declaring indignantly.

But little Sherlock wants to play, really really wants to. So I watch him use the most powerful weapon against his big brother. “Only because you are about to lose,” he claims, then ignores Mycroft entirely and after a while states, “Yellow car! I am leading by ten to nothing. Starting to play now would be stupid, 'cause you can't win anyway.”

I have to smile as I watch Mycroft's young face change from bored to determined. That strategy had always worked, even when he was already secretly ruling half of the world.

I am lost in (fond) memories, so lost that I am a bit surprised when the port of Dover comes into sight already. “Bit not good, getting that distracted when driving,” Inner John tells me. He is translucent, an unpleasant reminder of real John who is not here. I will him away and get out of the car to buy a ticket for the ferry.

### 

Aboard the ferry I feel the overwhelming urge to go to the rear end to watch the white houses of Dover, to watch England disappear from view.

Instead, I follow the memory image of little ten year old Sherlock to the front. He has never been one to look back. The warm evening breeze ruffles his curls and stings my eyes (for what else could be stinging my eyes?) 

Mummy is standing closely behind him, hands firmly on the railing next to his, her chin resting lightly on his head. She literally has his back. It is an intimate moment between the two of them. They talk about the sea birds you can see and the history of the English Channel. Or so it seems.

We are very much alike, Mummy and I. It took me years to realise. We both cannot just say “I love you” like Daddy can. So instead, she lectured me. There was always some kind of physical contact during those lessons, like here on the ferry. And I listened, returning the embrace or leaning into her touch. It really is no wonder I care so much about knowledge.

When the French coast appears, night is already dawning. I leave Mummy and Little Me on the passenger deck and get back into my rental car. In my mind I can still see them leaning against the railing when I drive off the ship.

Adjusting to driving on the wrong side of the street takes me only a moment. I want to look into the rear view mirror and watch Little Me, slowly falling asleep, head resting comfortably on Mycroft's shoulder. Instead, I remember leaving England via Calais three days after jumping off St. Bart's. I cannot help but notice how arrogant I was back then. Thinking I could go and destroy the spider's web within a few months, and then simply come back and confess my newly discovered love to John.

John. Thinking of him hurts terribly. I should probably do what Mrs Hudson had suggested: loathe him for leaving me, loathe him for taking Emmi with him, loathe him for giving up. Instead, I am deeply sorry for him. (As if feeling my own pain isn't enough to bear.) I wonder how he is carrying on.

It is easy to deduce that my parents as well as Mrs Hudson have informed him of my plans to leave England. Still, I wish I could bring myself to text him (at least). I use the next break at a Belgian filling station to stare at my mobile for fifteen minutes before I have to admit that I won't be able to write that text.

### 

I leave Belgium in the middle of the night and drive through the Netherlands without stopping.

I don't have many memories of that part of our journeys. A sleepy visit of a Dutch bathroom, a short glance at funny looking Dutch money, one of Mummy's lectures about the history of Europe that always lulled me back to sleep.

When I cross the German border it is not morning yet. I need to have another break. At the roadhouse a few scraps of German conversation wash over me, triggering memories of Mycroft teaching me words and grammar on the back seat, softly so we won't wake up Mummy.

Sooner or later my younger self would fall asleep again, head resting on Mycroft's shoulder. Now that I am watching my memories in the rear view mirror I suddenly realise that this was only possible because Mycroft was sitting in the middle seat of the back row. He always sat down behind the driver's seat when we got into the car. That means that at some point during the journey he always moved closer, just to be ready to provide support.

### 

A quick stop at a road house near Hamburg brings back unpleasant memories. The light is just a tad too bright, the tiles just a tad too blue.

Once, there was a rest room very similar to this one somewhere halfway between London and Edinburgh. I sulked all the way and was graciously allowed to go to the toilet alone. I was twenty-three that night and stupid.

For some reason I thought that taking one last shot before rehab was a good idea. I still don't know if it was just a careless miscalculation or really an intended overdose. All I know is that suddenly I was lying on the floor next to the water closet, desperately trying to breathe while my heart went into ventricular fibrillation.

I clearly remember Mycroft coming in, calling for help, shaking me while I was absolutely unable to respond. I also remember that all I could think was that I didn't want to die with Mycroft being the last face I'd see.

What I did not remember until now is the expression on his face that day. My brain has always filled the space by making up an angry or annoyed or bored expression.

But now I am looking at the two of us for the first time of my life. I see the panic in my own eyes. And I see the fear in his. I guess I never allowed myself to see his fear for my life.

For some reason that realisation stings. That, plus one very disturbing thought. One of the few comforts I have regarding Mycroft's death is that at least I was with him when he died. I remember how he clung to me. He had been glad that I was the one to hold him in the end.

If I had died at that rest room fifteen years ago, Mycroft would have known I would have died loathing his presence.

It takes more than half an hour before my eyes are dry enough again to continue my journey.

### 

The sun is barely rising when I cross the Kiel channel. The country road we usually took is a highway now, but there are barely any drivers beside me. So I decide to stop on the highest point of the bridge like Daddy always did and get out of the car.

(“Leaving your car at a German highway is also a bit not good,” the translucent inner John says. I will him away once more.)

There is the promise of a summer day in the early morning air. It will be a beautiful day. The perfect day to arrive at an island in the Northern Sea. But there is more in the air. The promise of a new beginning. The promise of my one and only chance to get myself right again. 

When I continue driving north, I am sure that my heart is a little lighter than before.

### 

I reach the port of Dagebül about an hour before the next ferry leaves. There is a tourist terminal now, and I am grateful for the chance to get some (German) breakfast. Outside the window, I can see our family eating whatever Mummy had packed, on a blanket on the dyke. They look incredibly close.

### 

The ferry is new, but boarding it by car seems strangely familiar. When I get out of the Mini, I am surrounded by happy tourists. German is spoken all around me, sounding harsh but familiar. I know that I will be able to understand it fluently again soon. 

The ferry is well attended but not too crowded. Shouldn't there be more passengers this time of year? Only then I realise that summer is almost over. It's mid-August. Summer holidays must be over in most parts of the country. I don't have enough memories to fill the weeks after returning from Mary's torture and yet, time has passed. 

Which means that Emmi is seven months old already. She should be able to crawl, commando crawling at least. I try to imagine what she looks like, with more hair and probably a tooth, maybe sitting on her own. 

I can't. 

I climb up the stairs that take me to the passenger's deck, and a younger version of myself is following, several steps ahead of the rest of the family. He is excited and restless from the long journey, hyperactive and absolutely unable to hold still. Not older than five. His mouth does not stop from babbling, he is bopping up and down while asking one thousand things in a row. 

“How long does the ferry take now? Why is it smaller than the ferry at Dover? How many people are aboard? How many more would fit in? Why are there trees in the water? Where are the horse head seals? Why are they called that way when they don't have horse heads? How ...”

I watch his mouth close in surprise when Daddy wordlessly lifts him, throws him over his shoulder and carries him outside (to give Mummy and Mycroft a break, no doubt). I follow them. The new ferry I'm standing on is slightly different from the one I remember, but somehow that does not disturb the memory. 

I watch Daddy lower little (smiling) Sherlock to the ground again. “One question at a time,” he commands gently, “and you have to wait with the next question until I have answered the one before.” 

Little me nods enthusiastically, and starts with the most pressing one, “Why are there trees growing in the water?”

Daddy smiles and explains about the North Sea being very shallow here, and about artificial navigation channels and proper markers for the ship captains while I watch the trees pass us by. Little Sherlock keeps firing questions that Daddy keeps answering good-heartedly until the ferry reaches its destination. I watch them until the ferry reaches the port of Amrum.

### 

When I leave the ferry, I make a mental list of what has changed (not too much) and what looks still the same. The pier has been modernised, the road is in better shape, but the red houses look just the same. I easily find the way to our house at the end of Wittdün. 

When I arrive there, I find the door unlocked. Nobody locks doors here. Something else that seems to be the same. I remember being too excited to rest, driving everybody insane until someone (usually Mycroft or Daddy) would take me to the beach. Well, I am not five any longer. I feel tired, overwhelmed, washed out. I know that there is a freshly-made bed upstairs (very tempting), and a well equipped fridge in the kitchen. Mrs Hudson has seen to that when calling the caretaker of our house. But before I can rest, there is one more thing I have to do.

I climb up the (twenty) steps, ignore my old room and go straight into (what used to be) Mycroft's room. Is our hidden treasure still there? The wooden floor creaks underneath my steps. It looks as if someone has modernized the parquet, but not replaced it. Good. Unfastening the second plank from the left in the third row is not easy, but in the end I am holding it in my hand. And underneath it, there it still is. An old freezer bag. It contains two letters. I take them both out carefully (exhaling, not sure for how long I have held my breath). 

I can see Mycroft and me placing them underneath the parquet. “Are you sure they will still be here in twenty years' time?” I hear myself ask concernedly, and watch Mycroft smile.

“Of course they will still be here. The parquet has been renewed two years ago, and the average time of use for parquets is about fifty years.” I can see myself being impressed by Mycroft's display of knowledge. He seemed to know everything. If he said the letters would still be there, they would.

Of course he was right. I pocket his letter and carefully open mine. It is addressed to me anyway.

Dear future self,  
(it reads,)  
Mycroft says it's unlikely that you will be a pirate. So I hope that you are an expert on pirates instead. Or a polar explorer. I also hope that you live on a big estate close to Mummy and Daddy with your three dogs and someone you love.  
Future self, many adults are idiots. I doubt that you are one. But just in case, here is some important advice on how to avoid being an idiotic adult.  
\- Make sure to spend enough time with bare feet.  
\- Remember why pirates are brilliant.  
\- Have hot chocolate in a hiding place outside from time to time.  
And here is something very very important:  
Mycroft is on his way to become an idiotic adult, too. Daddy says that's normal at his age and that I should keep in mind that inside he is still the same. So, dear future self, just in case you forgot: Mycroft is the best big brother in the world. If he behaves idiotic, take him to your secret hiding place and share your next hot chocolate with him. That should help.  
Sincerely yours,  
William Sherlock Scott Holmes

I have to take a deep breath. (And blink away something that cannot possibly be a tear.) More than ever before do I wish Mycroft were here. There is something painful about thinking that we will never have the opportunity to have that hot chocolate together. It would have been sorely needed. 

(I am a bit surprised at how positive my memories of him are. Am I being nostalgic? Or is my brain just giving my soul what it needs right now? I don't know. Don't care. Really.)

Maybe it is time to follow my own advice anyway. I stuff Mycroft's letter into my trouser pocket and go down into the kitchen. There is milk and cocoa and a saucepan and a thermos jug. Sixteen minutes later, I am barefoot and on my way to the beach. The little bench with the wooden table is still there, half-hidden in the dunes. I place the two cups I brought along on the table, fill them both with hot chocolate and give a mental toast to Mycroft. 

The view of the beach is fantastic. When I close my eyes I hear sea gulls screaming, the waves hitting the shore, some people laughing in the distance. Underneath my feet there is warm sand. The air is warm, a low wind (it is always windy here) caressing my face. I realise that I have calmed down for what seems to be the first time in weeks. It feels so strange that I need a moment to understand what exactly I am feeling.

Pirates (by the way) were brilliant because as a pirate captain you were allowed to spend your life on the ocean. You robbed mean rich people and never had to go to boring schools with stupid mean children who made fun of you because you were different. You never were alone, for you had a crew. You were always surrounded by other pirates who wanted to be with you, who wanted to serve on your ship. People who would have given their lives for you simply because they believed in you.

Yes, I desperately need the hot chocolate now.

After a few gulps, I feel steady enough to open Mycroft's letter. He refused to show it to me when we were young but he is not here today to open it himself. And so I read:

Dear future self,  
Please acknowledge my disappointment if you don't rule the world by now. It does not have to be official. You can rule it from the background. I think that is more efficient anyway.  
If you do rule the world, you will have the means to take care for Mummy and Daddy. I expect you to ensure their financial welfare. They don't need to know. You can make it look as if they won the lottery or something.  
Always make sure that Sherlock is fine, too. He might be a bit slow, but I love him anyway.  
Yes, I wrote that because I knew you would read the letter eventually, little brother! Shame on you. But as you are intruding my private sphere now anyway, you might as well read this:  
I know that the last year has been difficult for you, with school and stuff. I hope that the rest of your life will be better, but knowing how mean people can be, I am afraid that life will always be hard for you. Please know that I'll be there for you if you want me to.  
Mycroft

When I look up, Inner Mycroft is sitting on the other side of the table, a mug with hot chocolate in his hand. “Coming here was a good idea, Sherlock,” he says. “Healing will take time, no doubt, but coming here was an important first step.”

I miss him. Terribly. Always will. Just like I miss John and Emmi.

No, not like I miss them. Mycroft is gone for good but John and Emmi are not. They need help, just like me and as far as I see it, I am the only one who can give them that help. So my course is set. I need to get over what Mary did to me. I need to deduce again, and I need to speak. Once that is done, I can fix John. 

I remain sitting on the bench until the stars come out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amrum is lovely. Go, visit it. I wish I could be there more often.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Autor's note: Thanks to the Schutzstation Wattenmeer (Wadden Sea Conservation Station) for bringing the acteon tornatilis to my attention.
> 
> Edit: Being on Amrum at the moment, I found out that there are three cemeteries, not two. I changed that now.

The problem is that I lack a plan. How do you get better on purpose? For a few days, I get up with the intention of talking to someone. Not much. Maybe saying “Good morning” at the bakery or “thank you” at the little supermarket. 

Of course that does not work.

Whenever I come close to talking to someone, an irrational panic spreads all through my body. I start sweating, feel a lump in my throat, my hands start shaking. In the end, I give up. I try to tell myself that going to the bakery is already a big achievement as it is. I am pointing at the things I want, which is some kind of communication, isn't it? That is already more than I was able to do back in London. Sometimes I give a friendly nod to people I regularly meet on the street or at the beach. 

But it is not enough. I still spend way too much time staring at my mobile, wishing I could contact John. 

I still can't.

When I am not busy failing to heal, I spend most of the time outside. I walk for hours and hours. First, I walk through every road in Wittdün. (There are not many, but still I want to rediscover them all.) Then I walk through every road in the next village, Stenodde. Then, I walk through every other road on Amrum. Then, I walk the trails through the forest and the dunes. Then, at night, I leave the trails. (Not allowed, for good reasons. But I need to do it. I need to make this island mine.) In the end, I take a long walk around the entire island. 

Only a few days, and I know Amrum as well as I know London. 

My deduction skills are slowly coming back to me. I can tell tourists from inhabitants and deduce who will be patient with my muteness and who won't. But there is still a lot to re-activate. So, after walking the entire island, I start spending more time watching people. 

There is a walkway a few meters above the coast line, called Wandelweg. From there you can watch people walking towards the sea across the incredibly wide Kniepsand beach (1.5 kilometres at its widest point. Endless when I was a child). There are benches in the dunes from where you can watch people on the walkway. There are cafés and restaurants that are heavily frequented. There are beach chairs you can use to watch the people relaxing on the beach.

I manage to deduce a few (alarmingly simple) things but more often than not my mind starts wandering instead. More and more memories are swept up from the depths of my brain. They paint a more realistic picture of my childhood than the ones that came up during my journey here. But that is okay. I can handle them now. I remember more of Mycroft's annoying interferences with my life. A fight between my parents two weeks into our holidays when I was nine, so severe that I was scared they'd break up soon. A long list of stupid things I did the two years Mycroft did not join us on Amrum. 

Strangely enough, those memories still feel comforting.

After a while, I give up deducing and start walking all across Amrum again. Only now I cannot help but wonder which places John would love and why. Would he like it here at all? Do I like it, or am I just caught in misty-eyed memories? (Does it matter? No, it doesn't. Because being here feels right, no matter why.)

I am sure he would like the small freshwater lake in the dunes because it is such a peculiar thing to have a lake right beside the ocean. He would dislike the lighthouse because it is such a cliché. He would love the trail through the dunes because of the smile on my face when I get lost in the strangely calming atmosphere. He would love the sound the wind makes in the dunes, when it gently blows through marram grass, carrying sand along that gets into every piece of your clothing.

I think it is time to accept the fact that John broke my heart. 

Did I break his as well? Likely. To me it is clear by now that this has been Mary's plan B all along. She did everything to ensure that we both would be crippled beyond repair in case we would make it out of the cellar alive. (Don't want to believe that "beyond repair" is the correct term. I only wish I could see some hint of healing.)

I start visiting empty places, wander the Wadden Sea or hide in the forest.

One day I end up in front of one of the three cemeteries. Not one for the inhabitants. This one is called "Cemetery of the Homeless". There are four tidy lines of graves. Thirty-two graves, to be exact. The first one from 1906, the last one from 1969. There are no names on the wooden crosses. The graves of unknown sailors who were swept up on the beach one day. Nobody knows who they are. They all left people behind who never knew where the bodies of their beloved ones were resting.

For some reason, that touches me deeper than it should.

But do those souls really need to remain unknown? Surely there must be documents of their ships that report someone missing. If one would compare the worldwide records of missing sailors with ocean lanes, the ocean current at that time and the weather ...

Before I really know what I am doing, my fingers fly across my mobile. Most of the documents I need are classified or simply not to be found online. Does sending Mr Super-Secret screen shots of the pages I need access to count as communicating? Surely not.

I have to wait a whole day before I receive an email from him. Access to online archives worldwide. Not all of them legal.

Before long, I am knee-deep into research. I buy myself a new laptop and a printer (thank God there are international mail-order companies that also deliver to small German islands). Then I go to the local stationery shop and buy all kinds of coloured pens as well as pins and wool and turn the kitchen wall into an evidence board. Then I will my mind to work the way it has to in order to solve these kinds of cases. 

After two days I am sure that the sailor from 1934 is Arnulf Jögarson from the Norwegian ship “Irma”. (He left behind a wife and four children, one of them handicapped from polio. Today, there are three great-granddaughters still alive.)

After another two days I have figured out that the dead from 1953 is the British passenger Tom Parson, of the German ocean-liner “New York”. (Went to Hamburg to visit a friend and was on his way back to England. Left behind a fiancé and three siblings. Today, many of their off-springs are living near Edinburgh.)

 

The next two are easy, now that my mind has got used to working like that again. Knowing I won't be able to say much to support my results, I take the time (thirty-eight hours) to write it all down before handing it over to the local historian slash book shop owner.

He looks through my documents, utters the German equivalent of "amazing" occasionally and claps my shoulder in delight.

Three days later, there are names on four of the crosses.

I refuse to deal with the local press but continue working. After another week, three more names are added.

On my way back home from the cemetery, I take my time to walk along the walkway through the dunes instead of going straight home. A bad idea, for my mind insists on working. And with no new riddle to solve, it starts analysing my current state of mind.

On the plus side, I have to say that my mind has picked up speed again. Deducing might still be hard, but thinking as such is possible again. Finally.

On the minus side, I have to admit that by working on those cold cases I have managed to isolate myself further from other people. Not good, Inner John tells me. He has his back turned to me and is even more translucent than last time he showed up. I dismiss him angrily.

But he has a certain point. I can't even remember the last time I tried to speak.

A sudden wave of frustration hits me. I have been here for such a long time already and have not made any progress at all. How am I supposed to get better that way? John was right to leave.

(Is he feeling any better than me? Surely. He has to feel better. But wouldn't he have contacted me if he were better? But he cannot still suffer. That thought breaks my heart even more than the thought of a John who is better but does not want to call. So he has to feel better. But why hasn't he contacted me?)

My mind is trapped in a vicious circle, cannot break free on its own. I stop working on the graves, go back to walking the island and sitting on benches. Going backwards. Regressing.

Around me, the wind is getting cooler. Summer has turned into autumn. Gigantic flocks of birds arrive and leave. Tourists leave as well. The miniature world I have chosen to live in slows down. So do I.

I can't remember when I last ate something - just like I can't remember when I tore down everything from my make-shift evidence wall. But the diagrams are lying on the floor and I am not starved to death, so I must have done both at one time or another.

Again I spend more and more time sitting on benches or standing at the seaside, watching the waves playing around my (very convenient) wellingtons. Autumn is cold but mostly dry. Even when it is raining I prefer staring at the sea to staring at the torn down evidence wall.

One day when I am deeply lost in non-thought, I listen to the various people passing me by, deduce who it is by listening to their walk on the mudflat. I recognise the walk of the elderly woman with the terribly untrained pug. I recognise the walk of the teen who always sneaks away from home to meet his girlfriend instead of studying. I recognise … 

Oh.

I recognise a walk that is as familiar as can be. Female, bare feet despite the cold. Energetic even when strolling. Looking for someone. (Me.) The steps slow down (she looks around), come to a halt (found me) and start again, quicker now (approaching me). She slows down when she has almost reached me (unsure how to go on now) and finally stops next to me.

I don't have to look at her to see the hidden insecurity on her face. She probably thinks that Daddy should have found me. He is far better at handling a broken son.

We stand next to each other in (rather comfortable) silence for a while until nature seems to have pity on us. A small object catches my eyes. "Oh, look, Sherlock," Mummy exclaims, "it's an acteon tornatilis. One of the most seldom nautili. When you were little we spent weeks searching for one, do you remember?"

Of course I remember. We never found it but spend almost the entire time together, just the two of us. It was brilliant.

Mummy goes on lecturing about the acteon tornatilis, telling me things I already know. At some point, her hand sneaks into mine. At another point, my head rests on her shoulder.

"We will stay for a while," she says suddenly and I nod (gratefully).

When we go home later, she is still holding my hand the way she did when I was ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: As I don't have access to the same data bases Sherlock has, I could only make up the dead sailors of course. Both ships, the Irma and the New York are likely to have sailed in the vicinity of Amrum at the right time, but I don't have the slightest idea if one of their crew was reported missing. 
> 
> Big thanks to my three betas for high speed corrections. <3


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. And the biggest thanks to my betas who told me twice that something was still missing in this chapter even though I was impatient already. You helped me making it a lot better.

When we come home (Daddy's car in front of the house) I notice (amount of rain drops on the bonnet tell me it has been standing in the drizzling rain for more than three hours. So they came here with the 10 o'clock ferry) that they took their time to unpack (five now empty bags means they intend to stay for a long time) before looking for me. What did they do after arriving?

Oh.

The evidence wall is intact again. Some of the information is connected in different ways than before I tore it down in despair. In one case, the new arrangement makes a lot more sense. The uppermost sheet is only slightly above my eye level (Mummy's doing then).

I can't help but give her a surprised look. She smiles. "I like what you did. It's good to see that your brain is starting to work again," she says and then turns around to make coffee. It goes unsaid (but is understood) that I will start working on the graves again. 

When Daddy comes back (has been searching for me on the land-side of the island judging from the dirt on his shoes) there is some emotional (and completely unavoidable) hugging but far less than I feared. He ends it with some manly shoulder clapping and I pretend not to notice how relieved he is to see me being (relatively) fine.

Coffee is served and Daddy starts with an (also unavoidable) extremely detailed report of their journey here. After a while (they have just reached Belgium in his tale) Mummy leans over to me and whispers (so loud that Daddy can hear it), "Now you wish you could just tell him to shut up, right? "

It is a tactless remark. Both Daddy and I cannot help it but giggle. I think this is the first time someone manages to treat my problems with humour.

### 

Mummy loves German breakfast. Hence my parents start their first morning on Amrum with finding a café that serves breakfast, dragging me along without asking.

(It was easy to deduce that they think I am too thin. I try to sulk about being forced to eat but it is difficult to do a good sulking when you don't speak at all. Nobody notices that you are sulking. So I stop with it halfway and enjoy having my parents here instead.)

They do not order for me at the restaurant and let it go uncommented that I order by pointing at the menu.

Daddy is happy just to be on holiday (as always). Mummy is interested in each and every person around us (as always). She shares her deductions with us right away and (as far as I can tell) they are spot on (as always).

Then she makes a mistake with one of the girls sitting at the other table. (She mistakes her calloused hands for the hands of a horse rider while in reality she is a coach-woman.) (Understandable mistake. I only know better because I listened to her talking to a friend some time ago.)

I shake my head in disagreement.

Mummy doesn't understand why and goes on about the horse riding.

I try to disagree non-verbally again and fail to make my point.

Breakfast is served before I can get angry.

### 

Over the next few days we quickly establish a routine. We go out for breakfast together and then I work a little on my evidence wall (managing to determine the identity of three more sailors). There is lunch. Afterwards I go outside on my own or with one of my parents. When one of them joins me, there is tea (or coffee or cappuccino) to go on the beach or at a café. At night there is dinner that I sometimes skip to stay outside. I always slip into bed as late as possible. (No chance of falling asleep if I am not really really tired.) Sometimes in the wee hours one of them sneaks into my room to cover me with a blanket or to pet my head.

### 

"Baby steps" Daddy tells me gently every time I achieve something that would not be worth mentioning if I were all right.

On a cold but sunny day we happen to sit in the kitchen, him and me. It is easy to deduce that there is something on his mind. (I would not have been able to deduce that a few weeks ago. Guess I am kind of healing after all.) He chats about irrelevant stuff, goes on and on about the neighbours and the tourists next door and the friendly people at the little cinema in Norddorf before finally saying what is on his mind. (Kind of.)

“I need to see if the backyard is ready to face the autumn storms that are due to hit Amrum soon. Come and help me.”

A blatant lie.

The backyard was the very reason for me to come here. I remember adding it to my (then rather small) mind palace. (More a mind house, really.) (Well, let's be honest. A mind hut.)

The first draft of my mind hut consisted of two only rooms at that time. One for academical knowledge, one for people and deductions. I say academical knowledge. I was six when I started building my hut. Academical knowledge included all facts about pirates, that butterflies were caterpillars once, and how rainbows happen. 

The room for deductions … 

Unpleasant memories surface. Holidays when I was seven. A thoughtless deduction about how Daddy smelled one day. Mummy crying, Mycroft frantically trying to pick up the pieces after she left to sleep in a hotel for an unknown number of nights. Little Sherlock not understanding why everybody was angry at him. Mummy and Mycroft had taught him how to deduce, hadn't they? So why were they furious at him for deducing about Daddy and the Bird Girl in the dunes?

I see Little Sherlock hiding right here in the backyard. Watching Daddy leaving every day to talk to Mummy. Returning every day, still feeling guilty and sad. Little Sherlock is sitting on the bench all day, crying. Mycroft, twelve at that time, is staying with him. Trying to tell him it wasn't his fault. (Not really. Somehow.) Stroking his back. Comforting him. 

Then I see Mummy and Daddy in the backyard, both kneeling in front of Little Sherlock. Explaining that they are sorry for being angry. Telling him that Mummy will move back in and that Daddy will never smell like the Bird Girl in the dunes again. The little boy is slowly starting to feel loved by them again.

That night, he includes the backyard in his mind hut. Just in case. One never knows if there might be a need for refuge one day. 

Across the lawn I observe another version of myself watching Little Sherlock and his family. He is in his early twenties. Worn out, thin. Dull hair. Cold turkey once more. Desperately looking for a place to sooth his soul to make it through withdrawal. Remembering the refuge he spent so much time in as a pupil surrounded by idiotic class mates.

Only now do I realise what Daddy must have seen all along. In real life I haven't been in the backyard yet. Why not? 

Another unpleasant memory. Me dying, trying to find refuge to prevent shock and death. Opening the door to the mind palace backyard only to find Mary pointing a gun at me. This was the last time I managed to open that door.

Before I can hesitate, Daddy gently pulls me out of my mind and through the real door.

Passing it feels weird. So many times I have tried in vain to open that door inside my mind palace. Just stepping through now seems surreal.

“This is where we found you that summer when Mummy and I were done being idiots,” Daddy muses. “I always thought it was your favourite place around the house.”

Of course it was. I remember telling him about my mind palace once, explaining how I use real places that have a meaning to me and reconstruct them in my mind. He knows the significance of this place. Does he connect my avoidance with my state of mind?

I am sure he does. This is why he is watching me closely as I look around. The view to the beach is breathtaking. You can see the sea in the distance behind the dunes, hear the waves hitting the shore. It was low tide one hour ago and you can watch the high tide rolling in again. 

Just standing here brings a peace of mind I have lacked for so long now. My troubled thoughts are gently blown away by the autumn breeze. My stomach relaxes suddenly and I realise only now how tense it has been for a very long time.

Daddy approaches me. “Not just a baby step this time, right?” he asks. 

When I nod, he places his hand on my shoulder. We remain standing like this for more than an hour before going in again, freezing but strangely fulfilled. 

### 

“You really should talk to this horrible woman at the supermarket,” Mummy fusses one day when she comes home from shopping. “She is always so impolite. If something bad happens to her because you talked, it won't be a great loss.”

I try not to be amused by it.

### 

What really bothers me is that Mummy is wrong about things more often than she used to. (Is she getting old?) She once mistakes a harbour seal for a grey seal. Another time she wrongly deduces that the local doctor has three children instead of two.

And then, one night she gets into a discussion with Daddy concerning the first settlers on Amrum. They (correctly) agree that there are Neolithic traces to be found. Unfortunately, their knowledge of the finer sub-categorisation is limited at best. It is understandable that Daddy claims the pottery belonging to the Pre-Pottery Neolithic B (though he does not know this term. He keeps calling it Neolithic before pottery) while Mummy resolutely (and wrongly) insists of them to be from Pottery Neolithic B.

(They are from Pottery Neolithic A of course. I have looked at them extensively.)

“The nice man at the museum said even they don't know for sure,” Daddy tries to make peace.

“Well,” she tells us, “didn't you look at the spearhead? Compared to others we have already seen, they must be dated back to 5,000 BC. Pottery Neolithic B.”

(She is right about the date but forgets to consider that Pottery Neolithic B started later up here in the north of Europe. They are from Pottery Neolithic A.)

“How can you be so sure?” Daddy asks with that little smile reserved for Mummy being brilliant when he himself is wrong.

Mummy is unstoppable anyway. “Oh come on, Sig. Even an idiot can see that they are from a Pottery Neolithic B culture.”

(No, Pottery Neolithic A.)

Daddy tries to come up with another argument, but Mummy insists, “No, I am absolutely sure. Those remnants came from a culture of the Pottery Neolithic B.”

"Pottery Neolithic A."

We all freeze instantly. I never intended to say it loud, really. But I did and now I cannot unsay it. My heart starts racing. My mouth is dry and I cannot swallow. The room is swaying a little.

Terrible things will happen. People get hurt when I speak.

My eyes are burning. I cannot breath. Panic attack, my mind tells me (unhelpfully). I remain frozen for another six seconds. Then I turn towards the door and run away.

The last thing I realize is Mummy grinning a little. It has been a trap. All those wrong deductions, all the little errors. They have all been traps to lure me into talking. Doesn't she know that people get hurt when I speak? But she knows. She made fun of it. Then why did she lure me into speaking?

(Rain is falling, soaking my hair, soaking my shoes.)

I cannot go back. Not now. Terrible things will happen to my parents and I cannot come back to watch it happen. Better come home when they are ... No. Better go home now and wait for them to ... No.

(Can hear the high tide waves roll in. Common gulls. An oyster catcher.)

Mummy and Daddy will ... I cannot even think about it. But they will. And it will be my fault.

(Wet branches hitting my face. Must have taken the road into the forest.)

Why did they come here first place? Why didn't they stay away where they were safe? John was right to leave me. He was right when he took Emmi away from me to keep her safe.

(Fences inside the forest. Signs. I have reached the Vogelkoje. How very fitting. A place of slaughter, brutal death. A place of killing thousands of innocent stupid ducks. How very fitting to end up here.)

I sit down on a (wet) bench. From here you have a good view of the spot where hunters used to club ducks to death. Today this place is a (wannabe) tourist attraction with a cute mascot that tells children all about the blood thirst of their ancestors.

What will happen to my parents now? (So many ways to die slowly inside a house.) Has it happened already? How long will I have to wait outside to come back when it is over?

If I went back now, could I prevent it from happening? Is it too late for that now?

I sit on that bench until it is dark and I start to feel the wet cold that is creeping into my bones. My head is throbbing. (Rightful punishment.)

Rightful punishment.

I finally accept that it is time to receive my rightful punishment. I walk back home, ready to find my parents dead. (Surely with lots of clues for how slow and painful their deaths were. It will destroy me.) My rightful punishment for speaking.

When I turn into our street I see -

Them, alive and fine, in the kitchen. The kitchen window is opened a bit despite the rain and I can hear their voices. Can see them clearly through the brightly lit window.

My mind goes numb. Utterly completely numb. I enter the house and find myself under a hot shower without knowing how I got there. Then I am lying in bed, the taste of sweet tea in my mouth. Then the sun is shining into my room. Then I am sitting at a table at a familiar café. Breakfast in front of me. My parents next to me.

"It was a trick," I whisper.

Mummy looks at me with a familiar little smile, "Yes, it was."

I try to hold her gaze but fail. "Terrible things will happen to you two." My voice must be barely audible.

Still, they have heard me. "Nothing will happen to us," Daddy says with certainty. (I know that intonation. There is no use to discuss things with him when he talks like that.)

I just shrug. Of course something will happen. They will see.

### 

But nothing happens that day.

I hover around them permanently (mute again). Ready to face my rightful punishment. But nothing happens the that day.

Or the next.

Or the next.

After five uneventful days I feel a bit like an idiot.

### 

"Bitte mit Kaffee statt Tee," I tell the waitress when we are having breakfast on day six.

Daddy beams and pets my arm. Mummy turns away so I won't notice the tears in her eyes.

More uneventful days pass. I talk a little, every now and then. Nobody dies.

It has been a lie. A clever one, a haunting one. But after all, just a lie.

I am a bit sorry that John killed her so fast.

John.

Does he also know that it is just a lie? Surely not. I need to tell him. He has to know.

"I will call John tomorrow," I announce before going to bed. My parents approve, each in their own way.

That night I sleep better than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been a (little) bit generous with the facts about the whole Neolithic stuff. Archaeologists will hopefully forgive me.  
> The Vogelkoje and its mascot is not fiction. It's one of the strangest tourist attractions I have ever seen.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is not all right.

The next morning I sit in our backyard, staring at my mobile. It should not be that difficult, right? Because after all, it is John I want to call.

And yet … What if I am not healed enough? What if he is not willing to take care of me, happy that he at least is all right again? What if he thinks that I am not good for Emmi, even in my half-healed state?

Why didn't he try to contact me at least once?

After a while, Daddy joins me (unobtrusively). He sits down next to me and pretends to be incredibly occupied with reading a German newspaper. I cannot help but smile (a little).

After another while, I get over my (fear? No, hesitation. No, really fear!) and dial John's number. I hear it ringing three times before he answers, "Hello?"

Oh, how I missed hearing that voice.

I suddenly realize that I am unable to deduce him and to concentrate on talking at the same time. So I decide to record the phone call in my mind and just go ahead boldly, "Hello, John."

There is a moment of silence on the other side of the line. Then I hear John again, "Sherlock. It is ... good to hear your voice." Something is resonating in that sentence. Something I need to analyse later on.

Because now I have to face a problem I didn't anticipate: I don't know what to say next.

"How are you?" comes out of my mouth before I can say something more profound. It sounds stilted to me. Still better than silence.

John does not answer for a while. I hear him breathing hard. "Sherlock ..." he starts and falls silent again.

Do I need to fill the gap? That has never been necessary between the two of us.

"I am happy to hear you talking again. I really am," he finally says. Another (painful) moment of silence. Then, "But I can't talk to you. I'm sorry."

He is not all right. He is not all right. My mind starts spinning. Only now do I realise that I always assumed he would heal faster than me. But he sounds like he didn't heal at all.

No, he sounds even worse than when he left.

I try not to give up. "That’s ... all right." (It's not. Absolutely not. Because he is in pain.) After a moment I dare to say, "I'll call you again later, and then ..."

"Don't!" he hisses. Then, calmer, "Sherlock, I can't ... I can't. Please don't."

Now I am completely at a loss. There are loads of answers on my mind but none of them makes it all the way to my mouth. Instead, I feel a heavy lump forming in my throat. I cannot guarantee that I won't start crying at any moment. (He is not all right.) But he needs to know that Mary had told us nothing but lies. I need to tell him.

We are both holding the line. My mouth opens and closes a few times. I don't find the words I would need now. After some agonising moments, Daddy takes the phone out of my hand.

"Hello, son" he says and walks out of hearing range.

John is not all right. Somehow, I have always assumed that he would heal faster than me. That he would be only waiting for me to be all right again. 

I cannot stand to think about the emotional implications any longer. So I do the only thing I really know how to do. I go inside my mind palace (Baker Street, living room) to deduce him. (Replay his lines, one by one.)

1\. "Hello?" 

There was fear in his voice. He did not expect me to call him. Rather someone who found his number on my mobile. Someone who wanted to inform him of my hospitalisation or my attempted suicide or my suicide.

2\. "Sherlock. It is ... good to hear your voice."

His brain needs a few seconds to adjust to the (unexpected) fact that I am able to talk again. He is relieved that I am better. He enjoys hearing my voice but restrains himself from being too happy about it. He still believes that terrible things will happen to people if he loves them. 

3."Sherlock ..."

An expletive. He needs time to consider what to say next. He is going to say something that will hurt me and tries to soften the impact. He still cares for me a lot even though he doesn't want to.

4\. "I am happy to hear you talking again. I really am,"

He really is. But he wishes he weren't. He still loves me and desperately tries not to.

5\. "But I can't talk to you. I'm sorry."

Because talking to me would inevitably intensify the love again. The love he is trying to bring to an end.

6\. "Don't!"

Panic. He has realised now how much he wants me to call him again. How much he wants me to come to him. How much he misses me. How much he loves me. How terrible the punishment will be for both of us.

He still believes her lies.

7."Sherlock, I can't ... I can't. Please don't."

It breaks his heart to say that. But he welcomes the heartbreak because a proper heartbreak leaves the heart numb. A broken heart is less at risk of loving again.

It is hard not to give up hope. Really hard. In my mind palace, I sit down in my chair and stare at his (as much as you can stare when tears are blurring your vision). I can feel his pain, worse than my own. I love him. He tries not to love me and fails. And with Mary's horrific plan B playing out, his ongoing love for me is destroying him.

When I finally come out of my mind palace, Mummy is sitting next to me. It is late afternoon already. I blink.

“Where is Daddy?”

She looks at me carefully. “He … left with the two o'clock ferry. Needs to pick up a few things we forgot back home. He will be back in two or three days.”

I know Mummy is lying. I know she knows that I know. We both pretend I don't know she is lying. 

Because it is really obvious that Daddy has left for Scotland to look after John. 

### 

The next morning, Mummy is busy cleaning the house (extensively). That leaves me space to face some things I have avoided so far. I need a proper setting to face them. So I pack a thermos jug filled with hot chocolate, put on my (ridiculously yellow) rain-coat and drive all the way to the beach in the north-west. There is a lookout in the dunes with a bench and a notice board. It tells you where exactly London is from here. 

(I do not need that information but I feel somehow closer to home here.) 

There is rain and wind and sand blowing into my face and the smell of salt and seaweed in my nose and the taste of hot chocolate in my mouth. The perfect stage for facing some of the demons still locked away inside my mind. 

There is a (terrifying) room in my mind palace where I stored every memory I could not delete but had to block. The accessible memory of Mycroft's death for example is extremely limited but inside this room everything must be waiting for me to look at it. I would prefer to keep it inaccessible. But John is not all right and he needs me to be all right for both of us.)

So I take another gulp of chocolate and open the door. 

There is a gigantic flat screen in that room. It starts showing me every devastating detail I have blocked. How John covered Mycroft's body with a blanket because I (completely irrationally) feared that he would freeze. How the police had interrogated us and refused to listen when I told them my deduction. (I clearly remember my rage about that now.) How Mycroft's men took over the investigation.

How I collapsed when they took his body away. How Daddy and John had to carry me inside the bathroom to take a shower after thirty-eight minutes. How scared John was for my sanity.

All the holes in my memory are filled now, one by one. Not just the facts, but also the emotions. It is a painful and heart-wrenching process but I experience a strange peace of mind when it is done. 

I finally drive home to find Mummy working on the unknown sailors once more. When she deduces my state of mind, she definitely doesn't cry with relief secretly while preparing dinner. 

### 

I follow the same procedure the next day. Only this time I go through everything that happened down in that cellar. 

It causes a pain in my heart that is different from what I felt yesterday. Different but not less painful. There are so many details I need to wrap my mind around. The deeper I analyse Mary's actions the clearer it becomes why John and I are suffering so much, even weeks after her death. 

There are a few extremely painful moments I have to watch again and again, until they slowly start to lose their terror. (John's face when he stops himself from saying “I love you” for the first time. The feeling when I was lying on the ground after being tasered to near death. My relief when my legs gave in.)

Then I watch Mary's corpse and I am finally able to deduce what exactly happened behind my back. (I had been unable to deduce it right away and later could not find a way to ask John about it non-verbally.)

It is crystal clear to me now. (My deduction skills are working again. A unmistakable sign of my healing.) John was lying with his head in her lap (watching me not giving in just yet) when his bonds tore. (I recall now the way the ropes were lying on the ground). He let the ropes fall to the ground without moving much.

Mary must have been busy watching me because he was able to take her by surprise. (I recollect a sound and then her first scream.) He pushed her and got up at the same time. She fell backwards, her head hitting the ground. 

Then (the blood on his shirt and on the ceiling and on the wall) he took her knife before she could recover and (the way the edges of the wound were smooth, not lacerated) cut open her throat before she could even try to defend herself. She was (the gurgling sound I heard) alive for eight point seven seconds afterwards, her body (her fingerprints on his shirt) fighting for life but (his fingerprints on her arm) John mercilessly pushing away her hands. 

(Eight point seven seconds can be a long time when you know that you have been killed. Mycroft had fought death for nearly twenty-two point three seconds.)

She was (the position of her head before it lolled to the side) looking into John's face (her eyes wide open) when she died.

It was a short but painful death that came out of the blue for her. (Is it all right to be satisfied by that knowledge?)

When I am done with Mary I watch Big Boy's corpse. It was lying on the floor of the living room when John brought me upstairs. (Very easy to deduce.) John had taken a piece of firewood (stapled right next to the cellar door) and hit him on the head (the way his skull was deformed) nine times. The first one (the way his legs were sprawled out) had sent him down, the second one (the way he must have flailed his arms the second he died) killed him. John (being a soldier and a doctor) knew it instantly and (blood even on the ceiling) kept on smashing the wood down on his broken skull (hot boiling rage) seven more times.

Again, I feel better than I probably should.

The only memory I am not able to access is what Big Boy did to me (raped me) that last night. I try and try but fail.

This time, when I come home Mummy embraces me for a long time. And tucks me in when I go to bed.

### 

On the morning of the third day, Mummy "accidentally" leaves her mail account open. There is a mail from my father, telling her that he will surely be home today. That he will reach the last ferry if the traffic stays low. That she should gently prepare me for the fact that he will come back without John.

She waits for me to hide my (profound) disappointment before she comes back into the living room. We do not have to talk about it. She knows my sadness and I know her pity.

I spend the day alone on the beach. The harsh November wind is blowing into my face. I only return in time to welcome Daddy because I am cold and miserable when night falls. Have I eaten something? Not sure. Anyway.

I do my best to put on my "it doesn't matter" face when he rings the bell because I really don't want to make him sad. He has gone all the way to Scotland and back and has surely done his very best to convince John to come with him. If he couldn’t achieve it, no one could.

So I try to be grateful instead of sad when he comes in and -

My heart skips a beat. On his arm, cuddled against his chest, there is Emmi. Half asleep and curious at the same time. Five point six centimetres taller than when I last saw her. Her hair longer, now definitely golden. God, have I missed her.

She looks at me and starts to giggle. Her little arms are flapping in delight. (Both giggling and arm-flapping are new achievements. She looks wonderful that way.) Daddy is barely able to hold her and she somehow squirms her way into my arms. (A miracle that we do not drop her in the process.)

She presses her face against my throat (is it a hug? She has learnt to hug!) and for a few seconds, my world is perfect. She smells like baby and starts telling me interesting stuff about her journey. "Awawawawa," she says seriously (another achievement).

"Really?" I ask and she looks at me with surprised delight.

"Dabawada," she goes on happily (while I ignore Mummy kissing Daddy and then starting to fuss over all the stuff Emmi will need).

There is no way to put Emmi down or hand her over without making her cry so the two of us stay together until she falls asleep in my arms way too late. In the meantime my parents have put up the travel cot Daddy had brought along, unpacked Emmi's clothes and nappies, gone to the supermarket to buy baby food and built a corner for her to play in the living room.

I bring her to bed (her cot, standing in my room of course) and go back to my parents only to see them ordering a buggy on the Internet. When I enter the room, they both sober.

"John didn’t want to come," I state matter-of-factly. Daddy gives me a pained look.

"I'm sorry," he says gently and I shake my head. No need for him to be sorry. He tried. That is more than most people would have done.

But there is more he wants to tell me (I deduce from the look on his face). Unpleasant things I will not want to hear. We remain silent for a while. Without a word he takes an envelope out of his pocket.

I suspect a letter from John but find a certificate. Signed by John, endorsed by Mycroft, only three days before his death. Why have I never seen it before?

(Memory: John and Mycroft on the morning of his death. Smug. Satisfied with themselves. A surprise for me, forgotten in the aftermath of death and torture and suffering.)

The certificate makes me the legal father of Emilia Grace Watson in case something happens to John.

In case something happens to him.

My stomach clenches unpleasantly. I think of him, alone in the Scottish country side. He has just given away the last person who grounded him. I remember finding his gun gone when he had moved out with Emmi.

Oh John, please don't.

I fail to speak for some time but Daddy is patient.

"How was he?" I finally ask. I do not dare to voice the actual question, "Do you think he will kill himself, now that he is completely alone?"

Daddy thinks about the answer for a while. (His hand on my knee. Comfort. ) "You need to trust him," he says. "I know it is hard for you, but still. He is stronger than he thinks."

Which means that Daddy has observed what I could only deduce from afar. John is in danger and there is nothing I can do to help him.

Or is there? I could call him (against his wish). Write to him. Send pictures of Emmi to remind him of his responsibility. Could go to Scotland myself and ...

"Don't." Daddy tells me quietly. "I have told him where to find us if he wants to. But he needs to take that step on his own."

I hate it when Daddy is painfully right.

That night, I lie awake in bed for a long time, wondering what I will do if John … No, what I would do if John really … Then I listen to Emmi's soft breathing for a little eternity. 

I guess that she will be the reason for me to go on now, no matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once more for all who follow, comment, give kudos and read. It is so amazing how many of you there are now. <3
> 
> And of course thanks to my three wonderful betas. Your support means the world to me.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than ever I want to thank my wonderful betas. Not only for their grammatical input and stuff but also for their advice and support when it comes to dealing with rather peculiar comments. ;-)

Emmi is a miracle.

I need two days to fully observe and catalogue everything she has learnt during our separation (sitting, crawling with her belly rubbing on the floor, eating pulp, biting). 

I try to deduce how those weeks have been for her but my experience with babies is limited at best. She speaks less than she should (according to gruesome online portals that seem to be visited mainly by mummies with too much time and too little brains). That could indicate that John has been silent most of the time. 

On the other hand, she is able to play on her own longer than a nearly nine months old infant needs to be able to. Probably indicating that John spent more time watching her than playing with her.

But well, the list is as endless as it is fruitless. It all boils down to one fact: John has been responsible but distant. I figured out that one before, thank you.

Yet one thing is clear without complicated deductions: Emmi is craving attention, and so am I. We are the perfect match. My parents take care of her when I am working on the unknown sailors' identities but I cannot bring myself to turn my attention away from her for long.

I was right, nearly two years ago. Babies change everything. Emmi alters our routines, for example. Suddenly there are regular feeding times and naps. I need to eat because she quickly starts to refuse her baby food if I do not eat something as well. (So much like John.)

I need to talk more so she will as well. Before long, she is happily babbling at every possible occasion. I can even deduce from the syllables she uses if she is informing me about stuff or complaining about it. (Informing sounds more like dadadamama while complaining is wawawawa.) 

When she goes wawawawa about the need to get the nappies changed she looks exactly like John when he is complaining, lop-sided mouth and everything.

I miss him. 

### 

Time passes. Autumn gets darker, the island even more empty. My heart, on the other hand, grows fuller and fuller because of Emmi. I no longer think about every sentence I want to say before really saying it (only about half of them). I sleep and eat and know many nursery rhymes and children's songs by heart and know which way to the beach can be taken by a buggy and which cafés offer a good place to change nappies.

Yet, there is one thing I do regularly I would rather not have to. Every morning (and several more times on bad days) I check every available news source for reports on suicides of middle-aged men in Scotland. There have been two so far (one an overdose of sleeping pills, the other one a shot gun), but none of them John.

### 

“Your daughter is so lovely,” the girl with the two German shepherds (who always tries to flirt with me) says one day. “Where is her mother?”

“He is in Scotland,” I say.

She no longer tries to flirt with me afterwards but Emmi is still allowed to learn how to pet dogs without pulling their hair.

### 

One day (when I am reading Carle's “Do you want to be my friend?” to Emmi for the nth time) my heart tilts and the world stops turning for a second.

Because my mobile receives a text. From John. 

I hit the wrong button three times before I finally see his text on the screen. 

“Pick me up at 4.20 pm?”

I stare at it for a long time while my mind delivers four different routes he could have taken from his little Scottish refuge to the ferry that left Dagebüll one hour ago. 

I try to deduce more from his text but fail (too short, too impersonal, not enough information). I do not know anything about his mood or his intention or his state of mind or his degree of sanity. Should I go to the harbour alone? Should I take Emmi? Should I buy some kind of welcome present? How deeply am I out of my depths if I seriously consider a welcome present?

After a while, when I am able to breathe again, I write an answer, “Of course!” I delete the exclamation mark, then I add it again, then I delete it again, then I add it again and then I press send before I can delete it again.

Thirty more minutes before the ferry arrives. It would be reasonable to wait another twenty minutes before leaving the house.

Three minutes later I am standing at the harbour. (Have decided against taking Emmi. John has been in a gruesome state of mind when Daddy was with him and it is highly unlikely that he is completely fine now, only twenty days later.)

I grow more and more agitated with every passing minute. (That poor man who happens to wait next to me for his future daughter-in-law.) (My first mean deduction after many months. Is that another sign that I am getting better? Well, maybe it is just a sign that I can still be an arsehole occasionally.)

The ferry lands (finally) and (a few) people come off. John is the last of them. (Walks painfully slow. Exhausted. Hesitant. Not all right.) He spots me (but his pace does not increase). I feel the need to run towards him in every single muscle of my body but I refrain from doing so. (Do not want to overwhelm him.)

When he finally reaches me I do not know whether to embrace him or to shake his hand or just to nod. He does not give me any hint in that respect.

Then he looks into my eyes for a second. What I see there is painful. I take a second to take him in completely. (Dull hair. Wrinkles around his eyes. Dark bags underneath them. Barely any physical tension. Looks at the ground to avoid my glance. No emotion on his face other than resignation and tiredness.)

My stomach clenches painfully. Suddenly I am not sure that there is enough of John left inside that man to be saved.

But I have to try. So I push that thought aside (which takes an enormous amount of strength) and grab his bag instead. “Let me carry that,” I say instead of “Welcome” or “I missed you”.

John does not object to me carrying his stuff (not good). He does not look at me again, just follows me wordlessly. When he is sitting inside daddy's car, he gives me the address of his holiday home (Nebel, nice house on the land side of the island). Then he looks out of the window in silence.

When I stop the car (after an eight minute drive) he looks at his feet. “Coming here was a mistake,” he says softly.

I am out of my depths at what to answer.

“No,” I blurt out the only thing that comes to my mind. I continue telling him how glad I am that he is here. That he is surely exhausted from the journey. That I will give him some time to unpack. That I will come back at eight so we can have dinner.

“Okay,” he answers mechanically and leaves the car.

I wait until I am back home before I cry a little. Only a little. Then I cuddle Emmi and prepare to take John for dinner.

### 

When I pick up John at eight, he has taken a shower, is shaved and wearing fresh clothes. His bag is not unpacked. He does not smile or touch me but follows me without resistance.

At the restaurant, I have to chose for him and make him eat. 

I tell him more about Amrum, unimportant things like that the windmill in Nebel is now a museum or how important the island is for shelducks. He sometimes looks in my direction but never into my eyes. I do not think he is listening, so I refrain myself from telling him important things. He would most likely miss them anyway.

I am sure that in that ninety-eight minutes I talk more than I did during the last few weeks.

When I ask him if he would like to take a walk to the beach or go back to his holiday home, he just shrugs.

That could have gone better but at least he is here now.

### 

When I come to pick him up the next day, he is moody. He still does not say much but when he does it hurts. So instead of talking, we spend most of our time together in silence, walking around the island. (Him trailing after me like a puppy without a will of his own).

We always have to take little breaks because John is downright exhausted. His eyes are blood-shot and his movements stiff. That is not just the result of the long journey yesterday. John has been exhausted, utterly so, for a long time now.

He gets angry with me for almost everything. For explaining the wildlife to him (“Do you have to show off?”), for deducing the people around us (“Leave that poor woman alone.”), for suggesting breaks (“I can take care of myself.”), for not taking breaks (“You are so inconsiderate.”).

The terrible thing about it is that he is hurting himself with it, too. I can see it in his face every time I cannot hide my pain. When we are back at his holiday home after two hours we are both glad to part for a while.

Why is he doing this? Why is he hurting me when it hurts himself too? There is no logic behind his actions. I ponder it for a long time but have to admit that I am out of my depths.

The most unpleasant feeling when it comes to John. Because the truth is that I miss him terribly. Now that these strange new versions of him are here, I miss him even more than before.

### 

Later that day, when we are having dinner together in a little pizzeria (or rather the little pizzeria, the only one on the island) he is all silent and absent-minded and I almost wish for him to lash out and hurt me again, for everything would be better than silence.

After resigned John who arrived on Amrum yesterday, exhausted John who spent the first evening with me and mean John from this morning, this is the fourth version of him that I have to deal with.

To think that this is the same person who once said brilliant instead of fuck off... Who always kept me right. Who gave me a hand job in the bathroom when I had cut my finger on purpose. Who took care of me after Mycroft had died in my arms. Who forced me not to give up in that (despicable) cellar. 

It seems impossible that this is the same person.

Silent John is alert, I can see that from his eyes. He takes me in and thinks a lot but does not share those thoughts with me. 

I think I like him less than all the other Johns I have met so far.

I do not know how I make it through the entire dinner without going insane. When it is finally over, I return him to his holiday home and leave the car in front of our house without going in. I need to think it all through. I need to understand what is happening inside John's funny little head.

“It's really not such a big riddle,” Inner Mycroft tuts. He has been walking next to me for quite some time now. It is high tide, the dark beach is empty. Little waves are splashing onto the sand, the smell of algae is overwhelming. Occasionally the scream of a sea bird pierces the silence.

“Imagine a client tells you that her husband behaves differenly every time she sees him. What would you think?” Mycroft goes on. It is unthinkable that his expensive shoes get ruined by salt water, so my brain makes him walk just slightly above the ground.

“Multiple personalities,” I start and he frowns. “Multiple siblings,” I go on and he frowns even deeper. “Lousy acting,” I try again and he finally smiles. 

“And why would John act instead of being himself?”

This one is easy now. Because being himself is not what he wants. Because being himself scares him. Because he still believes Mary's lies. 

“Because he still loves me,” I conclude, a bit surprised. 

Mycroft gives me a sad little smile, “Of course he does, little stupid brother.”

Of course he does. And it scares him so much that he tried four different ways of coping with it. 

He spent three months in Scotland trying to un-love me. He gave Emmi away so he could un-love her too. But apparently it didn't work. So he came here now to un-love me while spending time with me. (That's why he was so grumpy this morning. He was focusing on everything one could dislike about me.) 

“How can I save someone who does not want to be saved?” I ask Inner Mycroft.

My dead brother shakes his head. “That is the wrong question, Sherlock,” he tuts again. When I fail to answer, he goes on, “The better question, the only question is, how can Sherlock Holmes save John Watson?”

A good question indeed.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry. I really am. But I promise that this will be the last mean cliffhanger.

How can Sherlock Holmes save John Watson? 

I have no idea. 

John is extremely determined to unlove me but fortunately very inefficient. No matter how much he concentrates on my flaws, his love for me does not stop.

(Of course not. His error in reasoning is that he knew all my flaws before falling in love with me. His strategy is bound to fail but who am I to give him ideas about how to improve his unloving business?)

What bothers me more is that I do not know how to help him. Not at all. So I stumble along, cursing my own helplessness as much as I curse Mary's brutal efficiency.

When I (kind of) have a heart-to-heart-talk with Daddy he claps my shoulder five times. (Not good. Every number higher than two is usually reserved for disaster.)

"If you tell me now that my heart will lead me the way I am going to puke right onto the kitchen table. " I (politely) inform him.

He just smiles at me sadly and claps my shoulder a sixth time.

"Do you know what the problem is, Sherlock?" Mummy asks a day later. Not waiting for my answer she goes on, "No matter what you both might think, John has not hit bottom yet."

I am afraid that she is right about that. I had my bottom-hitting in the form of a big red bus. John, on the other hand, is still spiralling downwards.

### 

When all his attempts to un-love me fail John becomes angry. It is a low-boiling, dangerous kind of anger. It is a mixture of self-loathing and despair and fear. It is a scary mixture.

It boils and boils just below the surface of John's already battered soul and I know that when it erupts I will be standing right in the centre of it.

And that is exactly what happens one day. We are in the dunes, spending another painfully awkward December noon together. John is silent most of the time. I am carefully walking on the thin ice of peace and we both know I am not good at it.

When the old man from the bakery passes by I keep myself from spilling out my deduction about what the doctor told him that morning. But it must have been visible on my face for John makes the most unpleasant snorting noise through his nose.

The best bet would be to ignore it but Emmi has had a bad night and hence so did I and I am cranky. "What?" I ask irritated.

John looks at me (surprised, for I usually ignore such provocations). Instead of answering he just shakes his head and snorts once more.

I know that this is another opportunity to drop the matter but I am really cranky and tired and cold and so I hiss instead, "It really wouldn't hurt you to answer me, you know?"

He stops abruptly and holds my stare. Then he growls, "Why don't you deduce what I want to say, genius?" Before I even fully understand what he is trying to say for real (“you're a show-off” and “how often do you deduce me and my misery even though I don't want you to?”) he goes on, "It's the one thing you never fail to do, right?"

I deduce (of course) that he is angry because to him it seems like I dealt with the aftermath of the cellar a lot better than him.

What he does not know is that his comment hits home.

"I did fail," I offer. (Hate how small my voice sounds all of a sudden.) "I was not able to deduce anything after you took me off the rope."

Something in his pose changes. He did not know that. Of course not. Without me talking, how could he have known? Still, something (unpleasant) is working inside his mind now. Easy to deduce once again. He thinks he should have known. He realises that he just hurt me but he also realises how long I must have been oblivious to what happened behind my back when he killed her and Big Boy.

And it becomes just another example of the hurt he caused.

No! He must not think that. "Don't ..." I start and (without thinking) reach for his arm, try to make him stay.

At that, all his anger erupts. He pushes my arm away, more forcefully than necessary. It hits me by surprise. (Stupid me!) Before I can help it, his push sends me off the planks and into the sand.

No hurt done to my body because I (gracelessly) land on my butt. But there is hurt done - to John. He stares at me unbelievingly. Then I can see more self-hatred rolling over his face in heavy waves.

He turns on his heels and rushes off.

I am left behind cursing my own stupidity and his anger and the world as a whole and when Mrs Sonderson passes by I tell her about her husband cheating on her with the police officer and wince when that does not make me feel any better.

I need some time to blow off steam before I can go to see John again. When I finally reach his holiday home he is packing.

I look at him sharply. Neither of us says a word but there is a flood of dialogue exchanged silently.

I wordlessly tell him that I know what he intends to do back in Scotland and that he cannot be serious and how he is about to end my life as well and that I will do anything just to keep him here.

He silently tells me that he is aware of all that and that he is sorry because I still care for him and that nothing I can do or say will change his mind.

Realisation slowly sinks into my brain. I cannot stop him. For a while, I watch him continue packing. I should do something, say something but my brain is strangely empty.

When he is finished packing, he straightens his back and faces me again.

This is goodbye, his eyes tell me. And this time for good.

I almost laugh when my mind registers the fact that we are saying goodbye for good for the third time now. Seems like not only all good things come in threes.

I want to laugh out loud but the sound gets caught in my throat. A terrible whimpering comes out instead.

We stand opposite each other for a while. Finality is settling down around us. One tear does not count as crying, right? I should say something. Something profound. Something to make him stay.

"Don't let her win," is all I can come up with.

John looks at me with more pain in his eyes than ever before. "She has already won, Sherlock," he answers quietly.

No. NO. Nonono. I know that he can read the “no” from my face, just like he read everything else. It just does not stop him. He hails a cab by phone and turns to me afterwards. “Don't see me off,” he (commands? asks? pleads?) says.

I won't. There is no reason to wait for his cab. Instead, I leave without a word. Drive back to Wittdün, park the car, sit down on a bench from where I can see the ferry landing. Watch John's cab arrive at the harbour. Watch him board the ferry. Watch the ferry leave.

Think of all the things I should have said when there was still time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The biggest thanks to my three wonderful betas. This fic would not be what it is today without you. <3


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about some comfort?

Time stops being important. The ferry disappears within the haze of the morning sea. People pass me by. The sun rises higher. Sea gulls scream. After ten minutes or six hours or thirty seconds I force myself to go home. Need to see after Emmi. Need to show my parents that I am fine. (As fine as can be, that is. Which is not fine at all, but it will have to do.)

So with all the will-power I can summon I get up. Better not take the car (too risky to drive when you cannot see clearly). I take the long way home so I have time to pull myself together. I walk around the top of the island towards the harbour. Watch the few people who are outside on that cold but sunny day. (Never understood why the worst days of your life are always sunny.) Do not pay much attention to the people I pass. 

Then I turn around the bend and see -

John.

Sitting on a bench. Staring out at the sea. His travelling bag at his side.

I don't know what to say, so I sit down next to him wordlessly. For a while, be both sit there in silence.

I ask myself if I saw him leaving the ferry without realising it but my memory of the time after he went on board is useless. All mental pictures are blurred with tears.

"I don't know if I can heal here with you," he whispers finally. His voice is raw. He looks as if he could break down any second. It hurts terribly to see him like that. "I don't know if I can heal at all, Sherlock. But I know for sure that I would be lost if I left now. "

That is true. I can see it in his eyes. Have deduced it before I left him, too. Unfortunately, no matter what Inner Mycroft might think, I don't know if I can heal John's soul. But there is one thing I can do for sure.

"Let me take care of you," I say, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. Trying to sound casual, so he won't feel emotionally overstrained. "Of your body. Your health, I mean," I correct myself hastily.

When he does not react at all, I go on, "Let me make sure that you regain some strength. Let me take care of your sleep and your nutrition and let me see to it that you get enough exercise. No obligations," I make clear when he frowns. Meaning: no need to worry about loving me or not. Just stay.

He stares out at the ocean for a long time. Then he finally nods. Relief hits me so strongly that I nearly giggle (inappropriately). "Good," I say instead, "Let's get you to bed, then."

I rise and he gets up too. Slowly like an old man. "Can't sleep," he murmurs, tongue heavy, words slurred, eyes half closed.

"Anyway!" I do my best to command him and it seems to work. He follows me without further complaint.

We move so slowly that it is almost paralysing. But going back to where I left my car would be a detour. 

Very soon he realises that we are not going to his holiday home but mine. He doesn't mention it but his body tenses for a while. Then he seems to lose his last bit of strength. He stumbles, eyes nearly closed now, and I carry him more than I support him. The way home seems endless.

My parents pretend not to be surprised and Daddy thoughtfully keeps Emmi out of the way. No need to get her prematurely excited about seeing her father. Getting John upstairs isn't easy but in the end we reach Mycroft's old room. 

“I can't sleep,” John repeats stubbornly when I (chastely) undress him. I gently press him down onto the mattress. He is sound asleep even before his head hits the pillow.

I hold vigil by his side, watching over his sleep. Maybe a completely redundant action but one my soul needs desperately. Mummy brings me something to eat from time to time and I take a nap every now and then, leaning against his bed with my back.

He has bad dreams, that much is easy to deduce from the whimpering and the tears but they do not wake him up. I remember that day back in 221b when I tried to comfort him in his sleep and he turned away subconsciously. The memory still hurts.

But when I try it again, when I softly (oh so softly) caress his face, he only sighs in his sleep. Is that progress? I don't know. But I continue to stroke his body (chastely) and he continues to relax. (I'm still not sure if it is progress but it gives me new hope.)

John sleeps for fifty-two hours. (He only wakes up occasionally to drink some water, never really opening his eyes.) That gives me more than enough time to think about how to go on with him.

When he finally wakes up for good, he is disorientated for a moment. He lies completely motionless, eyes closed. Taking in the situation, scared to give away he is awake. Like he did back in that cellar.

“You are safe,” I say and watch his body relax. He needs some time before being awake enough to open his eyes.

“I'm still here,” he says and I am not sure if he is surprised or not. 

“You got off the ferry to stay,” I explain, and he nods, like accessing a long forgotten memory.

“Right.” He falls silent again. Our eyes meet for a moment.

I should probably wait until he has eaten something but I am too impatient. Too urgent is the need to change things, to help him out of his fears.

“John,” I say (using his name as a filler). My hand is lying next to his, ready to make contact but hesitating. I wait until he is looking at me (his guard finally down, his soul raw and open) before I go on, “John, you have spent the last three months trying to un-love everyone you care for and it didn't help you at all.” 

His reactions are (finally) obvious, nothing left hidden. He is surprised by my (overdue) straight-forward approach, has to admit that I am right, is caught between agreeing because I am right and denying because he does not want that to be the truth. After a while, he nods wordlessly.

“Why not try something else?” I go on and finally summon enough courage to place my hand (gently) on his. 

He does not withdraw his hand (a good sign). Instead, he is looking at our hands for an eternity before he asks, “Like what?” (I hate how small his voice sounds.)

“Like just … “ (I need to summon some more courage before boldly going on,) “... loving me again. And Emmi.” When he frowns and opens his mouth, I quickly continue, “Or just stop un-loving us. Time will pass, and you will see that Mary told us nothing but lies. You will love me again and nothing bad will happen to me. I promise!”

John thinks about it for a while. (His hand still placed underneath mine. Incredible how much I need this little comfort.) Then he looks into my eyes again. There is sadness in his face, way too much of it.

“But it has already happened, Sherlock.” he says softly. “You have already suffered so much. Everything would be fine as long as I loved Mary more than you. That is what you told me at the hospital, remember? But I didn't, and so she killed Mycroft and Harry and hurt you and let Big Boy hurt you even more and then I left you and took Emmi with me and ...”

His voice breaks and apparently he is unable to go on without crying. So am I. But his hand is still placed underneath mine.

We spend the next minutes not crying. “And now you are here,” I can reply after some time. “And I want you to be here. And if you really didn't want to be here with me, you would have stayed on that ferry and gone back to Scotland.”

I hesitate for a moment but if there has ever been the need to be perfectly honest, it is now. “You would have blown out your brains yesterday morning and I would be on my way to bury you right now.”

At that, he winces. So I was right. Of course I was.

“You would have hurt me far worse than Mary ever could, and you would have hurt Emmi as well. But you didn't. You are here, alive, and I will be damned if I let you get away with that stupid un-loving thing.”

We stare at each other for a while. I am sure that my soul is as raw and open now as his. 

John is the first to break the staring. He sighs. “God,” he says then, “I have slept for days, Sherlock. There is no way I can face your bloody determination without at least one cup of coffee.”

An attempt at humour? He could not have taken me more by surprise if he had stripped himself naked and snogged me senseless. I have to smile a little. So does he. Well, it is not really a smile, but his face brightens somehow and some of the wrinkles around his eyes seem to magically disappear. 

I think I am finally talking to the John I fell in love with.

“Coffee then,” I agree and sniff at him. “But first you need a shower.” 

He nearly-smiles once more. “Agreed.” I lead him into the bathroom (slowly but steadily), supply him with towels and fresh clothes from his travel bag and head downstairs into the kitchen.

“We'll need coffee and something light to eat,” I tell my parents. Daddy starts preparing something for us instantly while Mummy looks quizzically at Emmi who is sitting on her lap. 

“Should I take the young lady out for a walk?” she asks. (Translation: do you want me to hide Emmi from John?)

I shake my head fiercely, “No.” No more hiding, no more misguided consideration. 

When John comes down, Emmi is delighted beyond words. She laughs and flails and wriggles herself off mummy's lap to get attached to John's leg and tells him “dadawadadwawa” until he picks her up. She presses one of her open-mouthed kisses onto his cheek and happily babbles on.

John's eyes meet mine and I am relieved to see that he still has not closed his soul again. He is uncomfortable and scared and happy and unsure all at the same time. But he carries on, lets her sit on his lap all the way through breakfast.

When Emmi finally agrees to settle down on the floor to play with her toy blocks, John sighs but does not run away. 

He still has a very, very long way to go, I think. But he has finally taken the first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my betas GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzy. You are the best.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzi. You are the best. <3
> 
> Sorry for the delay. Real life and stuff ... :-(

I know that getting off the ferry was John's giant leap back to life but it hurts to watch how slowly he progresses from here.

He is still literally moving very slowly. But it is no longer the sluggish walk of an exhausted old man. It is the careful walk of a cautious soldier. He still expects hell to break lose any second because he allows himself to stay with us.

If he would admit to himself how much love he still feels, he would surely be even more cautious.

In the morning, he always has breakfast with us, sometimes at home, sometimes at a café. He obediently eats and gains weight. 

Afterwards, he spends time with Emmi and whoever would join him (usually me) until his nerves run out and he has to retreat into solitude once more. On good days, he manages to stay until tea time. On bad days, he makes his exit right after breakfast. 

From the dirt on his shoes and the growing strength of his legs I deduce that he walks the island, just like I did. 

The longer he stays, the more people greet him when we go out for breakfast. I can tell that his radius increases over time. First, he is greeted by the people living in Wittdün, but after some weeks inhabitants from all over Amrum welcome him. 

I wish he would let me join him, or come along when I take Emmi for a stormy walk in the rain-protected push-chair but he insists on being alone. Most of the time I manage to be reasonable about it. Not always but most of the time.

I am longing for him to be all right so he can be the reasonable one again. 

### 

After a while, the nightmares start. 

It is a good sign, I try to tell myself. It shows that John's mind is trying to come to terms with what happened to us. Yet, they are shaking me to the core.

It is easy to deduce their content, as they usually end with John crying someone's name in despair, weeping hard, only to wake up and come for me or Emmi or (less often) my parents to check that we are still alive.

Though after the first three times he barely ever has to come to me for checking. He usually finds me standing in front of his door, or near his bed, ready to comfort him should he want me to.

He never does. Not yet.

The worst times are when he dreams of Harry, and you can see that for a second he is relieved at it being a nightmare, right before he remembers that Harry is really dead. This always breaks my heart.

For the first time since smashing my violin against John's chair back at Baker Street, I am longing for a new one. The sound of my playing used to dispel his nightmares about Afghanistan. It might work again now. 

But somehow, ordering a new one is a step I am not yet ready to make. I do not understand what is holding me back. Maybe the fact that all my former violins have been presents from Mycroft. Buying myself a new one means admitting that I will never receive one from him again. 

It is highly illogical, but I am not ready to take that step right now.

### 

After a while, John's nightmares start my own. 

It is a good sign, daddy tries to tell me. It shows that my mind is trying to come to terms with what happened to us. Yet, they are shaking me to the core.

They are always about John leaving or dying or being in pain. More than once, when he finds me standing in front of his room, I am not taking vigil over his sleep but need to check for myself that he is still there.

Mary might be gone from my mind palace for good but she finds a way to sneak into my dreams now. 

One night, I have the most gruesome nightmare of all. Nothing spectacular happens, no dramatic scenes take place. I am simply walking through the streets of London, alone. I know that I am alone because John and Emmi are gone. I pass through crowds of people but whenever I get closer to some of them they move away. I am isolated amongst the masses (the way I was before John). Mary is always somewhere to be seen in the distance, watching me wordlessly.

The dream is endless. The feeling of loneliness and loss intensifies with every step I take. My heart is squashed, my chest compressed by a force I fail to observe. I walk and walk and walk.

When I wake up, my legs are feeling sore and my pillow is wet. I am so exhausted that I can barely raise my head. But I have to. Because there is someone present, standing next to my bed. When I manage to open my eyes, I see John.

He is apparently caught between reaching out to comfort me and running away. We are both holding perfectly still for a while. Then his fear wins over his compassion and he turns away wordlessly.

In the morning he skips breakfast. At noon he does not show up for lunch. When he is still nowhere to be seen in the afternoon, I sneak out on my own when Emmi has fallen asleep while talking to her teddy bear about the unfairness of a world that forces her to wear socks.

My first impulse is to go and find John but then I decide against it. Instead, I sit down on the bench where I found him the day he did not take the ferry and text him. 

“Your presence would be welcome,” I write, hating how formal it sounds but unable to find better words to expose my sore heart. Then I continue staring out to the ocean, trying not to feel as lonely as I did in my dream. It is hard but every once in a while I manage to do so for a few seconds.

I do not hope for him to show up. Better start working on not being disappointed.

The cold wind is smelling of salt and algae and the coming of frost and snow. It is the last week of November, I remember suddenly. Christmas time will begin next Sunday. Mummy must have bought tons of decoration already.

And then, to my surprise, it turns out that it is not too early for a first Christmas miracle.

For John really joins me after a while. He sits down wordlessly and stares out at the ocean. For once, it is a strangely comfortable silence. 

When John finally speaks, his voice sounds calm but serious. “You have been waiting for me,” he states. 

I know that he is not just referring to me sitting here on that bench. He means the last months as well. “Yes,” I simply answer to both. 

John nods and falls silent again. After a few minutes, he goes on, his voice soft and sad, “This is hard for you, isn't it?”

How do you react to a (true) statement like that? I do not know so I stick to plain honesty. “Yes,” I say again. 

John nods once more. His whole body tells me he wants to say more (clenching his hands, pursing his lips, keeping his back erect) so I wait as patiently as I can. I am sure he wants to say sorry.

“Thank you,” is what he says instead. 

And he means it, that much is clear. His heart is entirely in this tiny little phrase. How is it possible that two little words warm my heart so quickly?

I am at a loss for words now myself, so I simply nod in return. We continue sitting there, side by side, the way we were always meant to be. We don't touch, though. I am longing, desperately longing to hold his hand but I am scared that might break the spell of this peaceful, open moment.

“Sherlock,” he says after a while but his voice trails off. (No, being patient is still not my strength. But I manage to be silent. Somehow.)

“What if … “ he starts again. Purses his lips once more. Clenches his hands once more. Is about to say something seriously important.

“What if I am broken?” he asks.

Any possible answer to that gets caught in my aching chest. “You are not broken. Just bent,” I tell him when I can breathe again. 

“What if not?” he insists. “What if I am broken into so many pieces that even you can never put them together again?”

I cannot help but snort, “I have fixed you before, John. I can fix you once more.” 

He looks at me (for the first time since sitting down next to me) and I can see in his eyes that he knows I am not convinced of it at all. He gives me a sad smile and (to my utter surprise) places his hand on mine.

“And what … “ (Again, patience is not my strength!) He draws a deep breath. “What if I will never be able to love you again?”

I adore him but sometimes he is a stupid idiot.

“John,” I say, as politely as possible, “you never stopped loving me.”

His gaze is directed to the ocean again. His face does this funny thing where it expresses three emotions at once. In this case they are lassitude, realisation and hope.

He wants to say more but does not. Just like me. But we stay like this, basically holding hands, for another thirty-six minutes before a shower of rain drives us home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for all the readers, comments, kudos, subscriptions and bookmarks. You guys are brilliant. <3


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of happened. I wanted to write about something else when suddenly Sherlock and John started to talk about an issue I never even thought of before. 
> 
> Thank you to GoSherlock for encouraging me to keep it that way and to Katzedecimal for the usual high-speed overnight beta-reading. Grizzi dear, hope you get better soon. Love!

Christmas comes at the most inconvenient time. No matter how much I try to play it down, the dreaded holiday comes with heavy implications of love and family and happiness. It hits John, who has always believed in the jolly season, with full force.

Too fragile is his willingness to love us again, too bitter the loss of siblings we are both struggling with. The fact that Christmas brings another wave of mourning to my parents does nothing to lighten the mood.

So we all spend the first half of December just hoping it will be over soon. Well, we all but Emmi who fortunately does not understand the meaning of Christmas yet.

Besides Christmas, there is something else nagging at my mind. John spent three months in Scotland, and no matter how much I try not to think about it, it slowly drives me crazy that I do not know anything about those three months besides the little bits I was able to deduce.

I know he was lonely. I know he tried to look after Emmi without caring too much. I know that he failed with that – he never brought himself to stop caring. I know he must have been desperate.

What I do not know is why he did not kill himself.

How do you approach a topic like that? I have no idea. So we spend much of our time avoiding the obvious topics. (Something we already learnt to do before the fall.)

Maybe my perception of Christmas time is too negative. After all, two weeks ago I never would have thought I got to spend much time with John at all. Now he does not only join the family for breakfast, he also dares to be alone with Emmi for a while, and joins me when I sneak out while she holds her evening nap.

It turns out that my assessment of the places John would like was right. I can see his body losing tension the very moment we enter the trail through the dunes. When someone at the bakery asks him (in broken English) if he has already visited the lighthouse he only snorts. And he forces me to stay at the freshwater lake in the dunes for more than two hours because he thinks it is the most peculiar thing to have a lake that close to the sea. 

One of those afternoon walks inadvertently leads us to the Cemetery of the Homeless. The better part of the crosses is now equipped with signs that give you the names and origins of the no longer unknown sailors. 

“I found it all out,” I cannot help but boast a little. Too long has it been that John has looked at me with admiration. But today, there is only a little amount of (well-deserved) admiration in his glance. 

“Any riddle would do to keep you busy here in the wasteland, right?” John answers.

That hurts.

On many levels. Not just because I mainly acted out of compassion for the sailors and their undeservedly sad fate of being buried far away from home, with the locals not even knowing their names. Also because (no matter how much I love London) Amrum is everything but a wasteland to me. 

But mainly because John's careless comment shows how little he understands me (any longer). 

I cannot bring myself to tell him, so I keep silent for the rest of of the day. He knows he did something that hurt me (I can tell that from his face and his unsteady stance) but he has no idea what it was. 

The next day I expect to be forced to do the evening walk alone but to my surprise John is already dressed up for facing the rain when I start looking for my coat. Ten minutes into my angry march over the Kniepsand, John breaks the silence.

“Tell me about those sailors,” he says as if he had not been the most ignorant jerk just yesterday. “You care about them, don't you?”

His eyes are searching my face with sympathy, his expression is open. How am I supposed to continue being hurt when he resembles my old John so much? I sigh, and to my surprise he grins a little. (Important. Need to ask him why later!)

“Amrum is no wasteland,” I snap, sharper than I intended. John cocks his head in silent understanding, so I go on (softer than intended), “And yes, I do care for the sailors. Their relatives must feel like my parents would have.”

Now he frowns, “How so?”

I sigh again. Pretend to be annoyed by the need to explain while in reality I am fighting with talking about feelings buried deep within my soul. (And John sees through my façade, understands what I am doing here. My heart gives a little jolt inside my chest.) 

“When I ...” ( … left you behind, believing I was dead.) ( … never even considered you might move on without me.) ( … hurt you.) ( … carelessly made you allow Mary to enter our lives.) ( … never even considered you might love me as much as I already loved you.) (… was an arrogant fool.)

“When I hunted down the spider-web.” Our eyes meet for a moment, and I can see that he heard all the unspoken thoughts that came along with my simple statement. Incredible how much it encourages me to go on. 

“About one year into the hunt I was in Bangkok. One of the few times Mycroft had no idea where I was.” It had seemed like a good idea back then. Stupid me. “Nearly got shot while standing on a bridge.” Not a big thing, really. I nearly got shot five times during those two years. But that one occasion got stuck in my memory.

“I almost fell into the river. I would have drowned, the Chao Phraya River would have taken my body to the ocean, and if my corpse would have been washed up at some Asian shore I would have ended up just like ...” … just like the unknown sailors. 

“And my parents ...”

“... would have never known what happened to you, and if someone buried you or not,” John finishes my sentence and goes on, “And neither would Mycroft.”

John would not have been affected of course. He would have continued to visit my empty grave in London.

My cheeks are burning now. Our eyes lock and all my regret is reflected in John's sad smile. For a while we continue standing there in front of the graves without saying another word. It is not necessary to talk about it any longer. Everything that needs to be said is told by our exposed souls.

The (little) space between us is filled with possibilities all of a sudden. If this were a romantic film we would surely kiss each other any second.

But we are not in a romantic film. We are two British men dressed in (screamingly) yellow rain coats. John clears his throat. I am intensely staring at a seagull. John looks around. I shuffle my feet. (Something I will surely neglect should John ever mention it again.)

“Oi,” John exclaims suddenly. “There are still four names missing!”

He is right. I stopped working on the graves when he arrived. (Another thought John reads from my face. I forgot that he spoke Sherlock fluently once.) 

“I should continue to work on those names soon,” I admit. And I can, really, because John is more stable than he was when he came here. He could play with Emmi while I ...

“Can I help you?” he rouses me from my thoughts. My glance darts back to his face. My heart skips a beat. So does his (I can deduce). Because he is offering so much more than just his help. 

“That would be … convenient,” I answer (stiffly) (but with my heart swelling in my chest). John smiles and nods, and I see the smile reaching his eyes. Not kissing him now takes a lot of will-power. 

And while I am busy not kissing him he closes the already small space between us and strokes my arm. Fondly. Then he blushes and smiles at me shyly. 

There is nothing left to say, so I just beam at him and then we continue walking along the Kniepsand in (comfortable) silence.

“It is nice to see that besides all your care-taking you are still able to sulk properly,” he says after a while, with a wry smile.

I cannot help but laugh out loud. He joins in and the world has become a tiny bit more perfect again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me take a moment to thank all of you for reading and commenting and giving kudos and stuff. You always make me feel extremely grateful.<3


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The same as always: Sorry for being late, thank you for reading. Here is something fluffy today. :-)

Somehow it has always been understood that Emmi alone will receive Christmas presents this year. My parents are still mourning the loss of their son (when they think I am not looking), and John is way too unstable for a blunt display of affection, and I am … well, myself, so I never really expect presents anyway.

But as things stubbornly continue being a tiny bit more perfect than before I decide to buy presents for all of them. Emmi will get a new book (because she loves making me read books to her and I will positively go crazy if I have to go over “The Hungry Caterpillar” one more time). For Mummy and Daddy I organise a Silvester trip to Hamburg on New Year's Eve, the town where they first met as teenagers under the most unbelievable circumstances.

And for John … My brain refuses to come up with anything for John. Normally I would go and compose a little tune just for him. But no matter how lovely it already sounds in my head I will not have anything to play it on. Besides, I am not sure if such a present is not still too much for him right now. 

Well, I still have two weeks to come up with something. Right now, I am perfectly happy with sitting in the kitchen, surfing the online archives of different shipping nations, John sitting by my side, sipping his tea. He sometimes looks over my shoulder, grunts his approval and one time even murmurs something close to “brilliant”. Then he starts working on his own laptop to help me with the virtual legwork. Occasionally he has an idea that is really helpful. 

When we manage to identify Cheng Wong he smiles. Honestly. With bright eyes.

I would fall in love with him right now if I weren't in love with him already.

“What a shame that we can't order Chinese take-away on Amrum,” he says (with a soft smile in his voice).

“That would be an appropriate dinner just now.” I agree, and for a moment there is something between us again, something that is patiently waiting to fully bloom again soon. That moment I know what I have to give him for Christmas.

So that night, when Emmi is (finally) sleeping in her cot I do not go back into the kitchen to join the rest of my little family. Instead I sit down in my room, start my laptop and check John's blog. There (still) is my entry made during his honeymoon, then a short part on Moriarty being really dead and an announcement of Emmi's birth as well as a lovely description of our life as a family of three. (Hard to read without getting heavy-hearted once more.). The last entry was made a few days before Mycroft's death.

I stare at it for a while and allow myself to contemplate all that we have lost and are beginning to regain. Then I take a deep breath, hack into his blog, open a new document for drafts and start writing about our work on the unknown sailors.

### 

Over the next days I work on the sailors' identities with John in the afternoon, write drafts for the blog about it at night, and try to teach Emmi how to walk and how to say Daddy and how to eat without polluting everything and everyone within a six feet radius every other minute of the day. 

That way, Christmas time flies by and I am surprised to notice that there have been worse times of my life.

### 

Mummy forces us to do womanly things she calls “Talking About Our Feelings” and “Sharing Our Emotions”. Those are gruesome rituals and I deeply pity Daddy for being married to a woman. (The fact that all this talking and sharing helps to make me feel better is something I would never publicly admit.)

I wonder if I should mention that I will give them all Christmas presents. The advantage would be that I could make clear that I am not expecting some in return. That way, they will be able to concentrate on being happy with their presents on Christmas Day and won't have to wonder if I am feeling sad (which I won't but all three of them wonder about stuff like that.)

The disadvantage, on the other hand, is clear: I would not be able to back-pedal and hide my presents should things deteriorate until Christmas Day.

I enjoy the way things are slowly going back to normal but I do not trust that unstable peace enough to make my plans public. So instead, I talk about how happy Emmi makes me. A topic that never fails to make “Sharing Our Emotions” a success.

### 

One week before Christmas Daddy declares that it is time for the men of the family to get a reasonable tree. 

Then he leaves with John. 

### 

When Christmas comes, the blog entries are ready to be uploaded. I am a bit unsure if my writing is good enough but when I show the draft to my parents Mummy is tear-filled and Daddy does the shoulder clapping routine I have come to like.

On Christmas Eve Daddy explains to Emmi (who is way too young to understand most of what he says) that she has to sleep now so there will be presents underneath the tree tomorrow. Mummy (who always had the most practical approach to Christmas when I was young) explains to her that usually Father Christmas brings her presents but as we are in Germany the Christkind will take care of them this year. 

The only thing Emmi understands is “sleep”, a word that never fails to make her cry. When her tantrum is over I am way too tired to worry about the next day, which is a good thing.

### 

On Christmas Day I am lying in my bed, wide awake long before Emmi even stirs. She will wake up soon, and then I will take her downstairs where the presents will be waiting for her. This thought makes my heart clench inside my chest, because if we are perfectly honest, it should be John who brings her downstairs. 

Will he be there during the gift giving? I think back. Last year (only last year, how can it have been only a year?) we were at my parents, ready to fool Mary, not ready to kill Magnussen. The two years before I spent somewhere away from John. The year before that I was busy thinking about Irene.

Christmas does not have any romantic connotations for John and me. So why is it so hard not to have romantic hopes this year?

Emmi stops my heavy thoughts by waking up. She no longer cries when she opens her eyes in the morning. Instead, she searches for me, rolls over and hands me her cuddle doggy. For some reason it delights her to no end when I kiss it before I kiss her. So Doggy gets his kiss but before I can kiss her, too, the bedroom door opens (slowly).

I am sure John can see the surprise in my face. Emmi's head swings around and she starts to giggle. Then she snatches Doggy out of my hand and crawls to the other end of her (slightly too big) bed and hands it to him.

He kisses both the dog and the girl (and only hesitates slightly before and only trembles a little) and then says, “I think Papa is still waiting for his kiss.” 

Emmi (who now understands so much more that only one month ago) instantly comes crawling back to me and stretches her arms towards me.

Out of the corners of my eyes I watch him taking a deep breath while I pick up Emmi. This is hard for him, I know. But he is here. When we go downstairs he stays right behind us. I am not sure how much happy family he can stand today but right now he is here.

This is most likely the best Christmas present I …

Oh.

Something happened while I was sleeping. Something I did not deduce in advance. When I went to bed, there had been a handful of presents for Emmi. Now there are several new parcels, for John and my parents and me. 

Both my parents must have sneaked downstairs at night to place them there. John too. (I instantly try to deduce the presents meant for me, but all of them are wrapped up with extra stuff to conceal their true form. Rude!)

“Looks like the Christkind has been busy tonight,” John says softly and his hand gently brushes against my back for 1.7 seconds. I can only nod. 

Emmi does not understand what is going on but the fact alone that things are different this morning makes her babble happily. While I am still considering returning the back-brushing my parents appear. 

A round of Merry Christmases is held and then Mummy hands Emmi the first present (a wooden work bench whose sole purpose is to teach her how to hit things with a hammer. I doubt she needs a toy to learn that.) She soon picks up the principle and starts hitting everything within her reach with the hammer. 

I use the small divergence to post the drafts on the blog and send John a link. Only seconds later I hear a pling on his mobile, and watch him opening the link. His face is unreadable (damn!) but he sits down, focused on the screen and for a few minutes he goes very very still. 

(He does not miss much of the gift giving for Emmi is still crawling around with the hammer in her hand, looking for things to hit while Daddy tries to stop her and Mummy takes a hundred pictures of it.)

After a while John looks at me. His eyes are suspiciously watery but he is keeping his countenance (with some difficulties). He stands up and for a second I think he is going to hug me. But instead he picks up a present and brings it to me.

“I wish I could give you something equally meaningful,” he whispers. 

I need a moment to adjust my brain to the fact that he is giving me a present at all. That he thought about giving me a present and then sat down and ordered it or went to town and bought it and then wrapped it up and all that without stopping halfway in panic. (His hands have been trembling while wrapping it up but he made it through.) 

When I am finally able to react I can feel him watching me. The present is a book (I deduce from holding it) but one he picked very thoughtfully (his eager face tells me). I open it (slowly). When I look at the title (“Amrum Yesterday”) I cannot hide a frown. It is not a book I would buy myself. I do not care much about history (unless it involves crime mysteries) and have never wanted to own a photo book (besides those on anatomy).

But he has put lots of thought into buying it. It must mean something. How do you ask about it without being rude?

But I don't have to. “I know that you always imagine everything we read about the dead sailors,” he explains. “But you don't know anything about Amrum's history. I am sure that most of the scenes you watch in your mind palace are filled with anachronisms.”

He has a point there, and, what is more important, there is a warm glow in his eyes. He really thinks his present will make me happy. Well, then it surely will. Sometimes he knows me better than I know myself. Besides, no matter how interesting or not, there is a symbolic value I cannot ignore. Working on the sailors has become the one thing we do together without shadows of the past looming over us. A present referring to that means so much more than just “I thought you might like it.”

I peek into it and instantly realise that I always forgot to include the Island railway in my mental images. And I got the old harbour wrong. And …

John was right, the photo book is fascinating.

I look at him (with a smile I could not hide even if I wanted to) and know that he knows how perfect his present turned out to be. 

I would love to dwell on it but Emmi demands more presents (rightly so). Then the gift giving goes on. My parents are appropriately moved by their trip to Hamburg, then a few more presents are exchanged, and everybody is moved by one present or the other.

Yes, I have to admit that I am so absorbed by John that I miss most of the rest. But it is a pretty easy deduction that we all are generally moved. 

Then there is only one present left. The one from my parents for me. They watch me so expectantly that I know it will be something meaningful.

When I was younger, I hated those kind of presents. They always came with obligations (showing the right amount of happiness, understanding the relevance giving it to me had for Mummy, and more). Now that I am more relaxed with my parents (when exactly did that happen?) I cannot help but look forward to opening it.

When I lift it up I instantly realise that there are several books inside the parcel that only serve to hide the object's true form and weight.

The parcel contains a box that contains a parcel that contains ...

A violin case.

The implications are nearly overwhelming.

I open it (with trembling hands) and my glance falls onto the most beautiful violin I have ever seen. Older than my old one, more delicate. A lot more expensive. The wood feels almost warm beneath my fingers, the bow is lying in my hand like it was made only for me.

I love my parents but it is absolutely impossible that this perfect instrument has been bought by amateurs.

I look up at them (which is hard because my eyes insist on staring at the perfection in my hands) and the words I would like to say stumble over each other inside my brain without making it to my mouth. (My mouth must be hanging open but I have no brain capacity left to check that.)

Mummy claps her hands in delight. "You like it, don't you?"

A most unnecessary statement. I nod anyway.

"Mycroft willed it to us," Daddy explains. "There was a letter attached, saying we should give it to you should you ever break your old one."

"But only ..." Mummy interrupts him and blushes. They exchange one of the looks they use to exchange whenever their sons were involved.

When she does not go on, Daddy continues, "But only if we feel that you are stable enough to appreciate it - and to keep it in one piece."

Mycroft. Even from his grave he finds a way to patronise me. For some strange reason that only makes me love him more.

"You think I am stable enough," I muse and Mummy has to giggle.

"Oh darn it. If we are wrong there are two more violins waiting for you. Just in case."

Of course there are. I have to smile (broadly). Then I focus on the instrument again. It needs to be tuned but my musical memory provides me with the correct frequencies. The strings are new. They fit perfectly and produce the most stunning sound when I adjust them.

I bring my fingers into position, the bow is ready to caress the strings - when I remember the last time I failed to play. And the time I failed before. And before. Time stops. All that exists is the most wonderful violin in the world and my failures.

Then a voice breaks through the wall I erected around me within seconds. It is warm and soft and not pressuring me at all. It makes my walls crumble to dust and pushes time so it passes again.

"I would love to hear you play," John says as if it was an easy thing to express.

He looks at me and I know that this sentence is the best Christmas present of all time.

I hesitate only for three seconds. Then I start to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to GoSherlocked, Katzedecimal and Grizzi. They beta faster than I can say "I love you".


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful betas for their incredible speed. :-)

The days between Christmas and New Year are called "zwischen den Jahren" in German, “between the years”. They feel as unreal as their name sounds and pass us by with a slow mixture of violin music, stormy weather, and domesticity.

Nothing really happens, and yet they are over within the blink of an eye.

On the morning of New Year's Eve, my parents leave for Hamburg. This breaks up the surrealistically peaceful time for just a few moments. The rest of the day Emmi demands our attention. She has become a blonde nearly-walking, nearly-talking whirlwind. She makes us do the most ridiculous things and before we notice, it is night time and she falls asleep in my arms.

John waits downstairs while I bring her to bed. He has been in a strange mood all day. Like me. No matter how matter-of-factly you try to see it, New Year's Eve is a peculiar time. It makes you reflect on last year and wish for the next even if you try not to.

I put Emmi into her bed and allow myself to watch her sleep for a while. No matter what the last year did to us, it also brought this little wonder into our world. My heart swells. Who would have thought one year ago that I would stand the test of being a father so naturally?

Emmi makes touching little sounds sucking her pacifier in her sleep. The little stuffed sheep John gave her for Christmas is half hidden underneath her. She sighs (happily) and starts dreaming of something nice (apparently). I continue loving her for a while. Then I tear my eyes away from her and go back downstairs.

Two glasses of red wine have appeared on the table in the living room, and a fire has been lit. The whole room is emanating an air of cosiness and warmth.

The only thing that does not really fit in is John. He arranged all that, and yet he feels like an invader. I can tell that by the way he sits in his chair a bit too straight, a bit too close to the edge. His (lovely expressive) face shows the inner turmoil he is going through. His fingers are ...

"Stop it, Sherlock," his voice cuts through my thoughts. Insistent but not unkind. He feels uncomfortable under my deduction. I don't want to intensify that feeling even more. So I nod and ...

And what? Grab a glass of wine? Drink it while standing in front of him? John has not touched his. Sit down then. But where? Next to him? How close is too close? How far away is too far away?

I curse my indecisiveness, yet I am lost as of what to do next.

"Could you … " John starts but stops talking again. His eyes wander to my fingers and then to my violin. He frowns. 

What a relief to know how to go on. Without saying a word I reach for the instrument, turn my back to John to give both of us some space and start to play a sentimental tune.

I play a few pieces John likes, including the one I composed for him in my head the week before Christmas. One day I will tell him that it is his song. One day I will tell him, and he will be able to deal with it. One day.

That thought makes me play another bitter-sweet song before I lower my bow.

John's glass is full but the bottle of wine is clearly more empty now. His second glass then. Being tipsy is not a good idea in a strange night like this.

Anyway. I down my wine too fast and finally sit down opposite to John in the other chair.

"What happened to your old violin?" he asks (out of the blue and it hits me by surprise).

There is still something surreal about this night. Something that makes me lower my walls and open my soul. Or maybe it is just the wine. 

"I smashed it against your chair when you left Baker Street."

We look at each other for a moment. He nods (sadly). "I had to go," he whispers after some time.

Of course he had. I know that (now). But there is one thing I still fail to deduce. "Why didn't you commit suicide in Scotland?" I blurt out. (Should have drunk the wine slower.)

John stares at a point on the wall behind me for a while. Then he takes another big gulp of wine himself. "Because of you," he says.

I want, I need to dig deeper but the door bell disturbs us. It is only a group of islanders in costumes. (Old Tradition. Boring.) John is polite, I am rude, they all get a shot of whisky and leave. The mood between us is gone.

For a while, we sit together awkwardly. My mind wanders back to New Year's Eve last year. I had been in prison, with no idea what would happen to me. The vague idea of a suicide mission to Serbia was looming over me back then.

And then an unpleasant thought crosses my mind, so sharp that my fingers start to tingle and my eyes start to burn. If I had been sent to Serbia, John would have stayed with Mary. She would not have had any reason to do all the things to him, to cripple his soul and kill his sister and make him regret the fact that he loves. She would have had no reason to shoot Mycroft.

For seven months I have managed to abandon thoughts like that. Now they hit me with uncontrollable force. John senses the change, looks at me with a frown. It is too much. I cannot stand his gaze.

I stand up too fast, nearly knock over my empty glass and turn my back to him. Pretend to look out of the window while trying to regain control over my thoughts that are running wild. 

If only I had been sent to Serbia.

I hear him approach me (carefully). “Sherlock,” he says. Nothing more. Not necessary. I can hear his unspoken questions, his concern. 

I shake my head, unable to speak. Try to breathe evenly. Fail. 

I can sense him standing behind me for a long time. Then he places his hand on my back. He holds still for a moment, then starts rubbing me carefully. I cannot help but lean into the touch. 

“Tell me,” John murmurs. His hand is still on my back.

Is it the wine? Is it the strange mood? I don't know but I take a deep breath and say, “If Mycroft had allowed them to send me to Serbia, none of ...”

I cannot go on, for John grabs my arms hard and jerks me around. He is angry, very very angry. “Stop that thought right now,” he hisses. 

We stare at each other. He takes a deep breath. His fingers are buried into my sleeves. He is shaking. “Stop that,” he repeats.

I fail to answer. We look at each other again.

“If you had been sent to Serbia, you would be dead by now,” he says, dangerously calm. 

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I answer, “and Mary would not have ...”

John interrupts me again, this time involuntarily. He makes a painful noise, something between a howl and a whimper. His arms fall down limply. Then he grabs me by my sleeves again. “You. Would. Be dead.” he repeats.

Time stands still for a moment. Our eyes meet and the rest of the world ceases to exist. I hold my breath. So does he. And then he springs into action, pulls me closer and presses his lips onto mine.

I must admit I have spent some time, mostly at night, imagining how our second first kiss would be. Now I realise that I have never even come close. He is still angry, and sad, and troubled, and he puts all of his emotions into his kiss. It is rough and clumsy. Our teeth clash and my body switches to autopilot.

My tongue is inside his mouth, my hands are on his backside. I have missed him so much I feel like drowning right now. My whole body is pressing against his, and I love it, I love him so badly.

For exactly 4.2 seconds we share a passionate kiss. Then our brains have time to catch up with our bodies. John freezes. Before I can prevent it, he stumbles back three steps. There is panic in his eyes, wild and painful. I must have looked the same way back when I accidentally talked to my parents.

The absence of his body feels like snow-filled air on my skin.

“John,” I say (pleadingly) but do not know how to go on. I remember that day almost three months ago. There is nothing my parents could have said to ease my fear.

“Something terrible will happen,” John mumbles. “Something … I love you so much and … and something will ...” He is panting. 

“John, no,” I babble (regardless of how useless my words will be), “nothing will happen. Nothing.” I am aware that I continue talking but I don't know what I am saying.

He steps back, one step, two, three. Shakes his head. It is so painful to see him like that, desperate and haunted by his inner demons. 

And then something changes. His body straightens and the expression in his face …

This is no longer crippled, troubled, desperate John. This is Captain Watson, ready for a ferocious fight. He is still shaking his head. “No,” he agrees, and looks at me in defiance. “No, nothing will happen to the two of you. Because I will protect you.”

Oh.

Okay. Given the fact that nothing would happen to us anyway, that sounds like a reasonable thing to do. 

He closes the space between us and only stops when he is so close that I can smell the red wine in his breath. “I know I couldn't, last time. But now I will ...” 

He embraces me, careful but strong. I do not know how long we are standing like that for my brain fails to count the minutes. It does not matter anyway. Funny how I always feel completely safe and wrapped up in his arms, with him being so much smaller than me. 

There are no fireworks at midnight (too many houses with thatched roofs), so we miss the beginning of the new year. But we both know that we started the year in each others' arms. It is so much more that I hoped for. 

“I will protect you,” he whispers before letting me go.

“I know,” I answer. What else is there left to say?


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Like so many chapters ago, there is a trigger warning AT THE END of the chapter so those who do not want to read it won't be spoilered.

John is determined to protect me. I doubt that he could put his finger on what exactly it is he is protecting me from but that does not lessen his determination. When we decide to call it a day he follows me into the bathroom. Things get a bit awkward but in the end, we are both ready to go to bed.

Of course he follows me into my room afterwards. 

On his way to my bed (which is so narrow that we will have to lie very close) (which is perfect) his eyes wander to Emmi who is still sleeping soundly in her cot. 

“She is fine,” I assure him. 

There are oh so many emotions flickering over his face. Love and fear and regret and hope and so many more that I cannot name them all. 

“I'll protect her as well,” he murmurs. 

Of course he will. 

I feel the urgent need to touch, to comfort him. Yesterday, I would have hesitated but our long embrace has made me reckless. So I place my hand on his shoulder. He tenses but only for a split second. Then he leans into the touch. From the side I can see his mouth open and close a few times. He is trying to tell me something, several things, in fact, but cannot make up his mind.

“Let's go to bed,” he finally says.

We really have to lie very close. Finding a comfortable position for John requires some shuffling and re-arranging of limbs. In the end we are facing each other, my face pressed against his chest. Our legs are tangled up. His arm is lying on my side, holding me tight.

It is perfect.

There is a little pang of guilt trying to get hold of my mind. We are only lying this close because John is scared to death. And yet, I enjoy every second of it. I force the guilt away with grim determination. John has to be scared to death. He desperately needs this chance to see that nothing will happen to Emmi or me just because he loves us. He needs to feel like he can protect us again.

Besides, he starts to softly caress my back. My mind is completely busy with storing every second of it in my mind palace now. There is no brain capacity left for feeling guilty. Despite my intention to stay awake all night, I feel myself slowly drifting into sleep. 

### 

When I wake up I realise that I cannot have slept for more than two or three hours. Something is different but I cannot quite figure out what. Then I realise that John has changed his position. His forehead is now leaning against mine.

“Sorry,” he whispers, “I didn't mean to wake you up.” His breath is tickling my nose. I cannot resist pressing a little kiss onto his chin. 

“Never mind,” I say, trying to sound casual while really being more than happy to be awake again. 

His body stiffens but not as a reaction to my chaste kiss. He wants to talk about something but does not know how to start. Instead, he shifts a little, again and again.

“Just say it,” I try to quip. It comes out gentle and warm instead. 

The shifting stops and John takes a deep breath. 

“I couldn't protect you in the cellar,” he presses out.

Of course he could not. That was the whole point of Mary's cruel orchestration. Before I can tell him so he goes on, “All the time I could only watch and watch and I tried to protect your soul at least but I failed and you didn't start talking again and I knew I let you down and … “

Now he is talking absolute nonsense. “Shut up,” I hiss (more fiercely that I had intended). 

It is too dark to see his face but I feel him shaking his head. I also feel his tears running down my cheek. “Sherlock, I am sorry,” he moans, “I am so sorry.”

“You saved my life,” I remind him. Why do I have to remind him? He had been there, too. He must know that I would have given up without him. I would be dead by now if it had not been for him. 

What was silent crying now turns into ragged sobs. 

“You saved my life,” I say, again and again until he finally calms down once more. 

Could I, need I say more? He knows that Mary has tried to systematically destroy him down there. He knows that he is not to blame for what happened and he knows that he saved my life. He knows that I love him.

Well now, that is the one thing I should say once more, just in case. So I tell him.

I do not quite know how it happened but we end up with his face pressed against my chest now, my arm around him. The exact opposite position of how we started the night. After a while he calms down. I can feel him shaking a little. The aftermath of his little emotional breakdown. His breath evens, his body relaxes. 

Then the shifting starts again. But this time I know what he is about to say and can forestall him.

“Maybe you can forgive yourself more easily, now that you know that I forgave you,” I suggest when he does not start talking on his own. 

It feels like his body is melting against mine, boneless, creating a vacuum between our skins by moving so close that there is no place left between us, not even for the smallest atom. He sighs deeply.

“Maybe,” he carefully agrees. 

Now that everything we are capable of saying is said, I start slowly rubbing his back until he falls asleep. 

### 

Protecting me is rather easy here on Amrum. Protecting Emmi is a different matter. She is learning to walk which means that she is falling down from or bumping into something several times a day. She has (harmless) bruises all over her body, plus scratches she got from God knows where. 

John is a doctor. He knows that is perfectly normal for an active child like her. He also knows that it is important to let her fall off of things because she has to learn how to fall. And yet, he spends most of New Year's Day holding his breath and STAYING CALM.

I can tell that he wants nothing more than to go out, vent some steam on his own for a while but he stays with us. Something terrible could happen to us while he is away. So instead of seeking for the solitude he needs, he does not leave us alone for a second. He even lets the door slightly open when he has to go to the bathroom. I pretend not to notice, and he pretends to believe that I do not notice.

I am waiting for a nervous eruption but none happens. It is because protecting is part of who he is, I realise when he makes a swan dive to catch Emmi when she jumps off the sofa. All the time after the cellar he felt like he was no use, like he could not protect us anyway. And he was missing it. Missing it with every cell of his body. 

I have to think back on how we ended up together first place. His very first move was to be helpful (by lending me his mobile), then he felt useful (by coming to the crime scene with me and running over rooftops), and the next big step was him protecting me (from my own stupidity by shooting the cabbie). 

Then I cannot help but imagine him sitting in Scotland, alone. With no one to protect, no reason to feel useful, no need to be helpful. How did he survive? The answer he gave me yesterday was not enough. So when Emmi takes her afternoon nap, I pluck up courage and ask him.

He looks at me for a while without saying a word. I would deduce him but my heart is beating so loud that I cannot concentrate on his face. He does his entire routine that always comes before he says something important (pursing his lips, looking away, shuffling his feet even when sitting, stiffening his back and pursing his lips again). 

“You,” he says then. When I fail to respond, he draws in a deep breath and goes on (reluctantly), “I … there was a plan already. I … I wanted … “

We are sitting face to face at the kitchen table. Not the proper setting for a talk like that, I realise (belatedly). Wordlessly, I take his hand (well, I rather grab his arm but anyway) and lead him outside into the garden. We can still hear Emmi from here but now there is no table between us. It is cold but the sky is clear. The grass is frozen. We can see the sea from here, the high tide with spilling waves. There is salt in the air and the promise of snow later this month. 

“This place is why I came here,” I tell John when I embrace him while he is standing in front of me, leaning against my chest with his back, and his shoulders finally relaxing again. “For many years this has been my safe haven inside my mind palace. I couldn't access it after the cellar, so I needed to come here.”

We share a moment of silence. A lonely seagull screams somewhere high above us. 

“I have been there before,” he says then. “In Scotland, where I was after leaving you. My aunt used to live nearby. A peaceful, deserted little hut in the Highlands.” He needs to dwell in memories for a while. When he goes on, his voice is so low that I have to press myself against him even closer to hear him.

“After your Dad agreed to bring you Emmi, I thought I would do it any day now.” (He does not have to say the word. I know what he is talking about.) “I was waiting for the perfect day, you know.” He is shaking a bit but soldiers on. There is no place for retreat now. 

“I always watched the sunrise, every morning. Everything was so peaceful then and … I was longing for peace, Sherlock, so much that I thought … “ He swallows. So do I. Unlike last night, his voice is completely free of tears now. It is all right, because I am silently crying for both of us.

“I knew exactly what I would do. I would take my gun and go outside before sunrise. And then I would watch the sky turning red, then blue, and then, when the day would have begun and my heart would finally be at rest, I would put the gun inside my mouth and end it.”

I am holding him so tight that he should not be able to breathe. (My mind flickers to another man who put a gun into his mouth and ended it. And I cannot help imagine John lying on the ground the way that madman had, eyes open, blood slowly seeping out of his skull onto the flat roof. No, the grass. With John it would have been grass.)

My face is pressed into John's neck. I am sure that he feels my tears running down his throat. 

When he does not go on, I ask him again, “Why didn't you?” My voice sounds awfully small. He sighs.

“I always imagined you coming all the way to Scotland to investigate. It was … “ He laughs humourless, “It was stupid to imagine it like that. As if my body would still be lying in front of the hut when you would arrive. But I saw it like that in my mind.” He shifts his weight, reaches for my arms that are locked around him. He clings to my forearms. I will have bruises there tomorrow. But that is okay. In exchange, the bruises on our souls will be a lot better tomorrow.

“I imagined you coming and … In my mind, you couldn't believe that I ended it myself. I saw you frantically looking for clues to prove it to be a very clever murder. There was so much panic in your face … That look hurt me so much.” His breaths are heavy now. He is shaking rather badly but he is not yet done with his tale.

“So I thought I would need to leave you a note. I even sat down to write it but … I couldn't make up my mind on how to start it. 'Dear Sherlock' seemed too formal, 'My love' inappropriate, … I couldn't decide. I was sitting in front of that stupid sheet of paper the whole day.” He leans into my embrace even harder.

“Then I heard your voice in my head, from the rooftop, you know? Telling me this was your note. And I remember how angry I was when I thought you were dead, how mad at you for throwing away your life and how disappointed in myself for not being able to stop you. And then I thought that the only way to end my life would be to get my gun and blow away my head right there, right now because I would never find the courage to do it if I kept thinking about you.”

He is crying now too. 

“I sat in that hut, the gun inside my mouth, the whole night. In the morning, the sun rose again, and then it was noon, and I was still sitting there thinking of what I was about to do to you and Emmi. And then, before I knew what I was doing, I was standing at the next train station, buying a ticket. I can't even remember packing my bag.”

He has used up all his strength telling me that. He is only still standing upright because I am holding him in my arms fiercely. I am sick, terribly sick. I knew that he had been close to doing it but never have I dreamt of it being such a damn close call. When I can no longer stop my own legs from shaking, I am slowly descending down. We are sitting in the ice-cold grass, not quite sure which of us is weeping. Not that it matters. Time passes. Peacefully.

“We will both catch pneumonia if we won't get up soon,” he says after a while, so dryly that I have to laugh. He chimes in, and we are giggling hysterically. When we are finally able to control ourselves again, he turns around in my arms so we can look at each other. There is sadness in his eyes and regret but something else too. 

Love.

Without a word he pulls my head close and kisses me, fiercely and demanding and feral and consuming and hot. Somehow I manage to pull us up without breaking the kiss, and we stumble into the warm kitchen again, sinking down onto the floor, still kissing, still re-conquering what once belonged to us.

We continue until Emmi's impatient wailing breaks the spell. 

John draws back, and our eyes lock once more. There is one more thing John needs to say right now, I can tell from his eyes. And I know what it is and I patiently wait for five seconds before he says, his blue eyes still looking deeply into mine, his hands holding mine so tightly, “I love you, Sherlock.”

I cannot answer but that is all right too. I simply nod, and his face bursts into a smile. Because he does not just love me. He knows me, and he understands me, and he belongs to me. Because he no longer is the almost broken man who arrived on Amrum two months ago. 

I love him too, and he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Very detailed talking about suicide. 
> 
> Further note: I have the best betas in the world. <3


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to me much longer but it has been really some time since my last update. So I decided to split it in half. That way you can read the first part already while I finish the second.

John is a different person after opening up so much. When he comes downstairs with Emmi there is a gleam in his eyes, an easiness to his steps.

He is happy.

Seeing him like this fills my chest with the funniest feeling. It might be possible that I am happy myself.

Emmi is the most emphathetic child in the world. She senses the change in her daddy and responds to it immediately. Her focus is entirely on him for the rest of the day. And he does not mind. In fact, he enjoys it immensely. When they come to join me in the kitchen after a while, he is several inches taller than just this morning.

(Just to make it perfectly clear, I am not in the kitchen doing housework because I became a house husband. I am doing the dishes because I am a FATHER and there are things that NEED to be DONE. And I am perfectly willing to clarify that when my parents will return tomorrow. )

(And I will never admit that I do not mind doing the housework knowing that I am doing it so Emmi lives in a proper home.)

Anyway. When John and Emmi join me for dinner, the three of us are just happy for a while. And when John puts Emmi to bed I remain happy. So happy in fact that I can only play light tunes on the violin.

Later, when we go to bed ourselves, John does not hesitate but crawls into my bed with adorable implicitness.

We fall asleep embracing each other and I dream of John and Emmi and me at Baker Street.

So when I wake up in the middle of the night my heart is still so filled with contentment that I need a moment to realise that John has woken me up inadvertently.

He has turned away from me and is showing me only his back in the pale moonlight. His breath is irregular. He is trying to control it, to hide something from me, just in case I wake up.

At first I think he is suppressing sobs or having a panic attack but then I finally understand.

He is aroused.

And trying to hide it from me for some reason. (Consideration, most likely.) Fortunately for him, that does not match my own plans of how to handle the situation.

Before John can react I roll over and spoon him. It has been eight months since we have been intimate but my sensory memory is excellent. I reach for him blindly and find the right part of him instantly.

He turns from half-hard to hard instantly. 

“Sherlock,” he whispers, ready to stop me, to think about it, to be over-excessively considerate.

I close my hand firmly. That silences him. 

“Hush,” I whisper back (rather smugly), “don't wake the baby.” 

He makes a needy little sound and slightly pushes into my fist. (He is unaware of that, his body moving on his own accord.) I have missed that sound, not sure I would ever hear it again.

It is a very encouraging sound. 

Two more strokes of my hand and he starts to sweat. One more stroke and he is close to coming. (Apparently he has not touched himself at all.) (He is starving.) But he is John, and he always manages to surprise me. Instead of letting go, he suddenly turns around and kisses me.

Which is fine because I am starving myself. 

Our kisses become more intense very soon. His breath is on my skin and his hands are on my arms and my chest and my back and how many arms does he have, really? His hands are soft and my skin is craving for his touch and my lips taste his sweat and then his hands slide down my hips and …

(A memory fires through my brain.)

… find what they were looking for and …

(Big Boy's hands were rough.)

… squeeze a little …

(More memories.)

… while his lips …

(Pain. Helplessness.)

...seek my mouth …

(Fear.)

… and then John stops moving abruptly. 

(Damn.)

“Sherlock,” he starts but I interject fiercely.

“Not now,” I hiss (and wonder if I sound harsh or helpless). John hesitates. I don't. 

My need to regain control is almost physical. I (almost) throw him onto his back, shut out my brain and get into action again.

And I am not modest enough to pretend that I am not brilliant. It only takes me a few seconds before John is breathing hard again, and sweating, and lowly moaning with pleasure, and his hips are moving erratically and his fingers are buried in my hair and his mouth is hanging open and he is shivering and God I love him like that and his body rises up against the mattress and then he collapses, boneless.

I feel John's body going limp, melting against mine. My brain refuses to worry about cleaning and becoming sticky and instead focuses on John. I smell his come, his sweat. The hair on his arms are tickling against my skin. His breaths are deeper than they have been in a long time.

Then a low amount of tension returns to his muscles. He is ready to confront me about my current state of mind.

"Sherlock ..." he starts but I cut him short.

"It's all right, John," I try to soothe him. But he is the real John again. He knows I am lying. He knows that part of my mind is still everything but all right.

And yet, he does not venture further down that road. "Okay," he murmurs (and I know that he knows that it is not okay). Then he turns around and takes me into his arms. (Now we will both be sticky in the morning.)

I move closer and he presses a few kisses on my throat and my neck. His lips are soft (when he wants them to be) and the intimacy of it all sends shivers down my spine. I feel myself becoming half-hard again.

We are lying so close that John feels it, too, but he does not force us further. He pulls me even closer and just holds me tight.

He is warm and present and soft and strong. I feel safer than I have in months.

"I don't know what he did to me," I hear myself say (to my surprise). When John shifts in surprise, I go on (speaking a bit too fast), "When he started touching me I went into my mind palace. My dog was there and I held him tight and ..."

I think my voice is wavering, but I am not sure. John's grip is tightening. He does not say a word, just listens.

"Inside my mind palace I heard a few noises, and there must have been some kind of pain but ... I have tried to remember what happened but I can't."

My voice is sounding strange now, vulnerable and childlike. I hate myself like that. John doesn't.

He caresses my scalp and breathes down my neck. "I saw it," he says quietly.

Of course he has. Stating the obvious is one of John's coping mechanisms.

I tell him so (probably a bit too nonchalantly) and he giggles a little. (A wonderful sound. Almost better than his moaning.) Then he sobers up again.

“I could tell you about it,” he says.

I move my head a little so I can see his face in the moonlight. He does not want to talk about it but he offers it anyway. I have missed the real John endlessly.

“Not now,” I answer. He nods and presses my face against his chest once more. He sighs but only when he thinks I am asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the best betas in the world. :-)


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying something here. Currently I am stuck in the middle of nowhere, aka "Vulkaneifel". I can access the Internet only via smartphone.  
> But you have been waiting for this chapter for so long and I am so proud of it this time. So I'll try and upload it from my smartphone.  
> Not sure if it will work. If you notice something like missing lines or if you ar informed about the update but there is no new chapter because something went wrong, please let me know.

My parents return the next morning. They are in a splendid mood, all giddy and soppy. I remember a time when I hated seeing them like that. (Envy? Most likely.) Now I cannot help feeling happy for them.   

They instantly detect the strange mood between John and me, the weird mixture of relief, catharsis, and something dark still lurking behind us. But because they are brilliant, they find the right way to help us without mentioning it: They pretend to have missed Emmi so much that they insist on spending the day with her while John and I can do as we please.  

And while I am still unsure of what to do now, John takes my hand and wordlessly leads me upstairs. For a moment I think he is about to therapeutically shag me but then he turns towards the bathroom.   

“Let's take a shower,” he says.   

There is so much subtext in that sentence. “Please don't say no”, he says without saying, and “This is important and more than just taking a shower”, and “Trust me”, and “I know what I am doing, I think”, and “Your pain hurts me”, and (of course) “I love you”.   

“Yes,” I answer to all of it, heart pounding in my ears for no particular reason.   John is completely taking the lead now. (Oh, how I missed that.) He gets naked in a nanosecond, and then slowly starts to undress me. At first, he opens my shirt and softly touches the skin on my arms when he pulls it off me. Then he carefully takes off my vest. I allow my eyes to fall closed (though I would have loved to look at his naked body for longer. But what John is doing now is so … sensual that I have to close my eyes).   

I can feel his hands on my bare chest now. They are not exactly caressing, more … exploring. No, taking back lost territory. Gentle, but firm. I am half hard by the time he reaches the waistband of my trousers. He is so close that I can feel his breathing on my skin.   

John is very careful not to scare me with a thoughtless, nightmare-triggering touch. Actually, he manages to get me off my trousers and my pants without touching the relevant part of my body at all.   

There is no graceful way to take off someone's socks, so lets skip that part.   When I am completely naked, John's hands are suddenly gone. I open my eyes and find him staring at me (in awe).   

He gives me a wry little smile when he notices me noticing his glance. He shrugs, not apologetically at all, and reaches for my hand. For a moment he gets sober.   

“Do you trust me?” he asks (unnecessarily).   

Of course I do. I intend to make an ironic comment but instead I simply nod because there is something very serious in his eyes. Something profound. Something painful. So this is really not going to be a simple seduction underneath the shower.  

My mouth is dry when he gently pushes me inside the shower cabin.  

It is one of those insanely overstated wellness shower things, with more shower heads than you need to get clean, and more settings to them than any human could ever use. I usually ignore all that by using only the traditional shower head above but John has other plans.   He does something to the settings and the shower starts to produce soft, warm mist, coming from above and from the sides. It reminds me of being in a tropical greenhouse, with a strangely erotic touch to it. The water in the air is so light I can feel my curls getting frizzy.   

For some reasons, it feels perfectly safe to be standing within this warm cocoon of water.   

John is not aroused at all. There is still something very sober in his glance.   

“You all right?” he asks, and again, I can only nod.   “Good,” he murmurs to himself, “that's good.”   

He grabs the sponge, soaks it with my shower gel, and starts rubbing my left arm with it. His face is working wildly. It forms a strange discrepancy with the peaceful, caring movements he makes. He is nearly done with my other arm before he finally manages to speak again.   

“He raped you three times.”   

My stomach clenches painfully but the feeling of safety is still there. John senses how I am feeling. I can tell by he way the sponge stops for the fracture of a second before it moves over my skin again.   

“The first time,” John goes on, “was immediately after Mary left the room.” His voice is neutral, dispassionate. He sounds like a pathologist, telling the police what he found out.   

He goes on describing the first rape in short sentences, no needless adjectives, no arc of suspense. No pity but all details. It sounds like a police report written by an over-motivated yet uninvolved officer. His voice does not quiver once.   

By that, he gives me exactly what I need. He provides everything I need to know in the only way I can process it without going insane. Or being reduced to a victim.  

And what a gruesome crime he has to report. What Big Boy lacked in intellect and finesse, he apparently made up with brutal force. At some point during the description of the second rape my legs give in. I feel myself sliding down the wall of the shower. John does nothing to stop me from going down. Instead, he kneels down next to me once I have reached the bottom, continues sponging me and goes on with his report.   

That is good because if he stopped now we would never bring it up again.   

He soldiers on all the way through the third rape without hesitating once. Not even when he can tell that there are tears running down my face. Not even when my head falls heavily against his chest. And even when he holds me tight with his left arm when my shoulders are shaking, his right hand continues to rub my back with the sponge.   It is only in the end when his voice finally breaks.   

“I looked at the two of you the whole time,” he explains and suddenly he has to stop to breathe hard. “I thought … I felt like that made it worse, like I also hurt you, but … “ He is crying now. “But then I thought, what if you needed to look into my eyes, to … to find comfort? What if you felt pain and shame and needed me for comfort? What would you think if you looked at me and found me staring at the wall instead?”   

The sponge is forgotten now, slowly spinning in the swirl above the drain. Our tears are mixing. We are hiccuping in sync.   

“So I watched, all the time,” he concludes his grim tale, “but you never looked at me.”   

“I wasn't there that night,” I say quietly. God does my voice sound small. He nods.   

“I know now,” he whispers.   

There is a lot that could be said now. But John said so much already, and I am not the most eloquent person when it comes to feelings. So instead, I let my body do the talking. I return his embrace until I feel him stir.   

“Let's finish cleaning you,” he commands, voice rough but steady, without any bitterness in it.   

He gets up (as gracefully as one can inside a cramped slippery shower cabin), reaches for the shampoo (his, apparently knowing I love the smell of his hair), kneels down again and starts to apply it to my hair. Well, apply. It is more of a massage, really, and I cannot stop myself from humming.   

I feel my body relaxing, and his, too.   

It goes on for a while, a lot longer than necessary. Then, finally, he stops and clears his throat. “I need to clean you completely,” he explains. “All of you. I mean ...”   I know what he means. So I silently watch him taking some of the foam from my head and putting it onto my cock. He cleans me from my glans to my penile root and then cleans my balls too.   

It is funny how that does not have any sexual connotation at all. Under different circumstances, it might have aroused me within seconds. But now, with John's face sober and his hands moving without caresses and his shoulders ever so slowly losing the tension they have kept up for months, it is only another part of cleaning me.   

When he is done, he gets up to change the settings of the shower and rinses the shower gel and the shampoo off my body with clinical precision. Then he gets out of the shower cabin, helps me up and towels me thoroughly, head to toe. Then he wraps me up in the softest bath robe he can find.   

My skin feels raw by now, as if John has removed the entire epidermis. As if he has removed every cell that had been in contact with Big Boy. As if he has washed off every trace of him. I feel like I am a hundred pounds lighter than before. I feel like I am finally able to breathe again.   John moves away from me a bit and looks at me. I can tell from his eyes he wants to make some funny remark to lighten the gravity of our situation, but then sees the expression on my face and swallows it instead.   

He nods, and that nod tells me he knows fully well what an enormous gift he had just made me, that he knows how grateful I am, and that he understands all that without me being able to voice so much as a simple thank you.  

He nods again, with a little, honest smile on his lips and in his eyes.   “Anything more I can do for you?” he asks then, almost playfully, to lighten the mood.   

I take a deep breath, because yes, there is the one thing I still need.   

“Is there anything you would not do for me?” I need to know.   

He holds my gaze for a while. Then he shakes his head. “I would do anything for you, Sherlock, you know that.”   Yes, I know that.   

I need to even my breath, even my thoughts, my up-roaring feelings, because it is a big thing I need from him. But I need it nevertheless. And I need to say it now.   

“I need you to … “ Damn. No hesitation now. Go on. “I need you to forgive yourself.”   

His face works on it for a while. Does he know his face does that when he is feeling that deeply? Probably not. For a while I watch the rapidly changing expressions. Then I have to stop because all of a sudden he pulls me close and embraces me so hard that he almost strangles me.   I can feel something hot dripping down his cheek. And I can feel him nod. Feverishly.   

“Okay,” he murmurs over and over again. “Okay, okay.”   

We stay embraced like that for half an eternity. Later, when we re-enter the reality outside the bath room, I watch him carefully. His steps are lighter, his face looks younger than it has in months. Every now and then he gets sober, sighs, and then goes on.   

He won't be finished with forgiving himself soon, I know that. Just like I won't be able to be shagged without Big Boy's shadow looming over me instantly. But we will make it.   

For the first time I know for sure that we will heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to change parts of the formating manually. Hope the paragraphs are all in the right place now. :-p
> 
> As always, biggest thanks to my wonderful betas. I am blessed to have you with me.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, so sorry for being incredibly late with the update. I shamelessly blame real life. :-p 
> 
> To make up for the long waiting, there is sex in this one.

It is funny. It was me who needed to hear about the raping, but it is John who is brought completely back to life by talking about it.

The next day, he suggests we all go out for breakfast. It is the first time he actively takes part in our daily plans. Mummy is pleased. Daddy claps his shoulder when he thinks I cannot see it.

And from that day on,we suddenly have things to do. John starts chatting with the locals, we start getting invited over for drinks at the most famous pub, the “Blue Mouse”, we have dinner in restaurants, visit exhibitions, and before we know it Emmi's birthday comes and goes and my birthday comes and goes and suddenly it is March already.

John loves us, without holding back, I talk and deduce, and we have (great) sex. The only thing I am still unable to do is to let John be the penetrating one. I try and make up for it with extraordinary manual and oral skills and succeed. And yet, it is bothering me. I want to get rid of it, want to take that final triumph away from Mary.

***

There is also one thing that John is still unable to do but I cannot deduce what it is. It drives me insane sometimes. When he suddenly gets cranky and I do not understand why. When he suddenly snaps at me and goes for a solitary walk before coming back into my arms, telling me it was nothing.

Then, one day, the problem finds a way up onto the surface. It is an unusually sunny day, early spring is in the air. We decided to take Emmi for a walk along the southern tip of Amrum.

We take the lower walkway because it brings us closer to the sands where the birds are resting. There are sea birds coming back from their winter quarters already, and now that Emmi's eyes are able to follow flying birds, she loves nothing more than to watch them all day.

There had been rain the day before, and at one place the walkway is blocked by a landslide and a “Do not pass” sign. John stares at it as if insulted personally.

“Let's carry the pushchair over it. We are alone here anyway,” he says and freezes when I do not start moving.

Carrying Emmi's pushchair over it would be an extreme waste of energy, so I suggest we take the upper walkway instead.

At that, John explodes. “It's … no, we won't … you can't ...” he stutters and turn to run away.

Only that the sandy earth is blocking his way on the one side of the walkway, and Emmi and I are blocking the other side. He is caught. He turns right and left like a caged tiger, angry energy emanating from every pore of his body. For a second, he is seriously tempted to push us away.

Emmi watches him in confusion, and frankly, so do I.

He takes a step towards us – and then suddenly stumbles and sinks down to his knees. There are tears running down his face, and I really do not understand why this little inconvenience bothers him so much.

I try to embrace him, and he lets me, ragged sobs shaking his body. Luckily, Emmi is so fascinated by his outbreak that she watches us quietly from her pushing chair without demanding any attention at all.

John is unable to talk for a long time. When he calmed down a bit, he sniffs into my shoulder.

“Sorry, I … I'm sorry.”

Apparently. But though forgiveness is not the topic here, it is granted anyway. What I really need to know is what just happened inside his head.

“I don't understand you,” I admit, feeling defeated.

He nods. “I know,” he says, not offering more. (Not able to. Not now.)

Without further comment I manoeuvre the pushchair over the sand and we proceed in silence. Emmi quickly forgets the incident, watches the birds, and happily exclaims every time some of them fly above us.

John puts up a smile for her, a little forced smile that most likely mirrors mine. After sixty-four minutes we return her to my parents and John goes into our garden, pulling me along.

He walks up and down for a while. Then he sighs. Then he shakes his head.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he says, while his body expresses the need to do just so. He takes a deep breath and starts again, “It is unfair. I don't want to hurt you, that's why I don't want to bring it up. It is my problem, not yours, and ...”

“There are no such things as 'your problems', John,” I tell him (gently). “Everything that hurts you hurts me as well.” (Damn, I sound a bit like Mummy. Hope John will tell no-one afterwards.)

He just looks at me for a moment, indecisively.

“Tell me,” I simply say, and John finally obeys.

“On the walkway, you just … you gave up.” He has to take a few breaths. His face is working all the time. “And I … you also gave up … then. And I asked you not to. And you … you promised.” He is finally able to look at me again.

“You promised not to give up, but you did, didn't you? In the end, you gave up.” He is nearly crying now, and so am I. Because I know what he is talking about, and I know that he is right.

“You didn't understand that I needed you to create a diversion for Mary.” (The first time he says her name. That is a good sign, right?) “I tried to tell myself that you did, but you didn't. You thought ...” He is shaking, still keeping a distance between us.

“You thought I allowed you to die. You … It is not fair, Sherlock. I'm not fair, I know, but you … You gave up and you were willing to die right in front of me. Again. I can't ...” He is choking on his words.

All my instincts tell me to embrace him, to tell him everything is fine but I do not move. Because he is right. And as unfair as it might be, as understandable my giving up might have been, he is right.

“I am sorry,” I offer, and he shakes his head.

“God, you shouldn't need to be sorry, Sherlock. She pushed you so far .. I am not being fair.”

That does it. I have had enough of his nonsense. With two wide strides I close the space between us and (rather roughly) pull him into my arms. He makes a choking sound once more but presses himself against me.

“I am sorry, John,” I repeat. He nods. Wants to say more but doesn't. Nods again.

I pull him even closer, press my cheek against his hair and refuse to let him go for thirty-eight minutes. After some time, he stops trembling, and in the end, his body relaxes against mine.

When he steps back to look at me, there are so many things to say crossing his mind. I can deduce most of them. It does not matter at all that none of them make it out of his mouth.

Because his eyes tell me that he loves me, and that somehow, an enormous weight is pulled off his shoulders.

***

“You boys need some time on your own,” Mummy says one day, a pro pros of nothing. Daddy nods, and before John or I can protest, they book us a hotel in Flensburg.

“They sent us on a sex weekend, didn't they?” John asks when we are sitting on the ferry to Dagebüll.

“Yes,” I say, trying not to look too pleased. I fail.

John smirks.

“I am not so easy to get,” he quips. “I demand dinner and dancing before giving away my body.”

Well, no problem there.

When we arrive in Flensburg and get out of the cab in the city, I am overwhelmed by the sheer mass of people. Not that much, really, but after spending so many months on an island with only 2,200 regular inhabitants, it feels like I am walking through a metropolis.

My mind starts racing, deducing five people per minute. I am only half aware of John guiding me towards our hotel (smiling). I think I am sharing some of my deductions with him but I am not sure. No time to listen to myself. My mind is working at full speed again, finally, and I love every second of it.

When we reach our room, I am exhausted and happy.

John just shakes his head in (faked) annoyance. “How can I compete with hundreds of strangers?” he asks jokingly.

Instantly, my mind focuses on him. He is a bit tired from the journey and didn't like the coffee we had on the ferry. He hates the over-exaggerated maritime pictures on the walls and would like to take a shower. He is watching me, admiring my fast deductions and aroused by the way I am looking at him now.

I probably should not have said that one out loud.

“Yes, I am,” he admits good-heartedly, “but I still insist on dinner and dancing.”

Suddenly, my heart skips a beat, for this man standing in front of me is really, really John. The John I missed for so many months. The John I was scared I would never see again.

“I love you,” I blurt out.

His face softens immediately. (No sign of fear. No hesitation.) He comes closer, cups my face, and I close my eyes. I feel his thumb stroking my cheek. Then he pulls my head a little closer. His breath on my cheek makes my heart beat wildly. His lips are soft, so soft when they touch mine.

It is a slow kiss, with some passion, yes, but also with tenderness and so slow that you can get lost within it. My hands are finding the way to his back on their own, my body seeking John's. It feels a bit like melting underneath his fingers.

With a fluid motion I sink into his arms when he breaks the kiss. Someone sighs, probably me.

“I love you, too,” he whispers. Then he holds me tight and the world is perfect for a while.

***

During dinner, John is completely focused on me. No flirting with the waitress, no glance spared for the other people around us. He only takes one look around the brewery and then stares into my eyes again. It feels heavenly.

We talk about light stuff. Emmi, mostly. Some island gossip. I deduce a few of the more interesting people around us. John listens in awe but does not bother to look at them.

We avoid talking about the future, content in our little bubble. I make him smile ten times before dessert.

The meal is good, so is the beer. We are both a bit tipsy when we leave for the little club I researched on the Internet. Going to a club is not what we usually do, but John insisted on dancing and I do not see him in a ballroom.

The small dance floor is filled with a few people, not too much to cause a crowd but not too little to make dancing awkward. The music (some contemporary piece John recognizes) is loud. I can feel it in my solar plexus.

Maybe it is the beer we already had, maybe it is the mood between us since the kiss earlier that day. Whatever it is, it makes us drift along with the music for a while. (Watching John “dance” is the funniest thing I have ever witnessed. He misses the beats and lacks any grace but he is happy with it. I could watch him being happy for hours. Even when he is jumping about like this.)

It only takes a few songs before we attract people's attention. Soon there is a woman trying to dance up on me. Dressed up in alarming colours, with a hair-do that only underlines a certain parrot-ness. When I subtly dance away, she follows. I am not really used to that kind of problem (and not entirely sober). When I try to scare her away I realise that the music is too loud for her to hear my (rather mean) deduction on her feeble sex life. She just sees my mouth move and smiles (while checking out my lips). (She approves of what she sees.)

Just when I am ready to flee to the bath-room, John appears. He is not completely sober either, and in a possessive mood. For a second I think he is going to start a quarrel but then he simply turns towards me and dances closer.

Well, so close that there is little doubt left about the sexual nature of our relationship. I would like to watch the parrot woman disappear but John's body is pressed against mine and his hips are moving (more or less) in time with the music and he is bumping against me again and again and it only takes a few seconds before I am completely aroused.

The music is hammering on and it leaves me in some kind of trance-like state of mind. John's hands start working up and down my spine, having somehow sneaked underneath my shirt. They leave goose flesh even though it is hot in here.

And again and again he bumps against my hips, teasingly, until I cannot (and do not want to) hold back. I pull him closer, our hips pressed against each other now, and force him into rhythm. He is as hard as I am. I find my hands on his arse, forbidding him to move away.

I briefly wonder if someone is going to throw us out any time soon for indecent behaviour.

Then John stretches his neck and kisses me. Powerful, demanding. Owning. His tongue is slipping into my mouth without any hesitation, without consideration. He wants, and he translates all that desire into that kiss.

And I want too.

And I realise that now, exactly now is the time for him to fuck me, for if I cannot allow him now I will never be able to.

Fear mixes with want and only makes me want harder. The rhythm of the music is getting faster and so are we. I try to withdraw my mouth to tell him that we need to get back to the hotel very very fast but he won't let me go. So instead I steer us towards the hall that leads outside. I lead and John follows and we are still kissing deeply. Here in the relative quietness of the hall I can hear us moan and the sound of us makes me even harder.

I am sure that my bollocks will explode if we don't make it back to that damn hotel room soon.

There is no time to pick up our jackets. A reasonable loss. I steer him outside where he finally draws back a little.

“God, Sherlock, I really think ..”

“Fuck me,” I interrupt breathlessly, and he laughs.

“Gladly.”

The hotel is nearby. We try to walk fast but cannot stop kissing every other second, one of us always holding tight to the other. It must look like some obscure drunken dance where we are orbiting each other like desperate binary stars.

When we reach the hotel our kissing gets so intense again that a shocked business man lets us have the lift for ourselves.

Inside it, I can see us in the mirror. Two men, greedily clinging together, both aroused so badly that it hurts. When the door open we stumble towards the door of our room. I fight with finding the swipe card inside my pockets and then I fight with using it to open the door.

John's hands have found their way into my pants which is not helpful. He is massaging me inside the cramped narrowness of my trousers and I am going half insane with need. My legs start to give in when I finally open that fucking door.

We almost fall inside and John somehow kicks the door closed.

He starts to open my trousers instantly.

“Don't you dare come already,” he presses out and I start sucking his throat in response. He makes the most wonderful sound, low and wanting and willing.

We both know that we won't last long tonight.

Our shoes are brutally slipped off our feet, and both our shirts do not survive being taken off in a rush.

Then we are both naked. I cannot help but stare at John's body for a second. He is fit again, lean but strong, and apparently very willing to proceed. And he is staring at me the same way I am staring at him.

For a moment, something in his expression changes. “Are you really sure ...” he starts but never manages to finish that thought because my hands find his bollocks. He almost buckles with pleasure.

“I am sure, John,” I hiss into his ear, pressing him close, not willing to let him go ever again. “I am sure, I am sure.”

He starts to stroke me with a little more force, knowing it always turned me on before … but it doesn't matter what has been. It turns me on again and I want it exactly like that.

John moans. “God I want you so much,” he says, “I want you right now.”

And he does. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in his cock. It makes me leak.

Then he takes over, shifts our positions a little while his tongue is inside my mouth again, and suddenly we are lying on the bed and he is above me.

“I want you to see me,” he says, blindly reaching for the lube we brought along with good sense. He fails to reach it, so I get it myself and hand it over. That creates a little break, a moment to realise what we are doing. Our eyes meet and suddenly it is not only my body that needs him to be inside me. It is my soul that reaches out for him, that needs him to be as close as can be, that needs him to heal my final wound.

I think that he sees the gravity of it all in my eyes. His breath hitches a little. He swallows, and then starts stroking my entire body again, softer now, slower. I allow my head to fall back and close my eyes. The ultimate proof of my trust in him.

I feel his lips moving over my body, moving south, feel him shift his weight so his hands can start to open me. He must be kneeling in front of my open legs now, judging from the tilt in the mattress. The heat of passion has subsided a bit. We are highly aware of what we are doing. His right hand is trailing over my belly while the first finger of the other is sliding into me.

I have to open my eyes for a second, concentrate on not panicking. I am sure he sees it, for he starts talking to me instantly. “God, you are so beautiful,” he murmurs, and goes on babbling so I can focus on his voice.

That way it does not take him long before I am ready for him.

Our eyes meet once more, and all the heat and passion and want rushes back. His wonderful face is open, his eyes clouded with lust. He is shivering in anticipation, and so am I.

I long to touch him but he is still out of my reach. So instead, I touch myself. We both get incredibly aroused by that.

“I'll do it now” he announces (needlessly) but takes a second to search my face. I nod, unable to speak right now. No idea how he manages to remain coherent right now.

I start to stroke myself, and John moans again before he finally penetrates me. The first thrust is unpleasant. I feel like he is too big and like I am too full and like I cannot go through it.

But then his hand cups mine, presses my fingers hard against my own cock, and starts moving my hand in time with his thrusts. God it feels good.

And then there is no time to think about the past any longer. Pressure is building up inside of me, and fast. John's hand on mine is anchoring my mind, and his cock is hitting my prostate every time, and his face suddenly twists, and there is want and need and lust written all over his face and I have to gasp and I am sure that he is moaning even louder than me and something is building up inside me, hot and red.

I am sweating, and breathless, and unable to tell how much time has passed since we entered the room, and my hand is pressed around my cock so hard that it almost hurts, and John is moaning again, deeper now and louder, and I think I am saying something but don't know what, and my head falls back, and I hear my own scream, and John still pushes and pushes, and I don't want him to stop, and I feel him tensing, and I still don't want it to stop but then my body arches and I feel him come inside me and suddenly I am pushed over the top as well and I feel myself pulsating again and again and again, and when I finally stop John collapses onto me.

Strange chemical things happen to a human body in those post-orgasmic seconds. So I have to giggle while pulling him closer so he can cry into my shoulder.

We are lying like that for a lifetime, him sobbing, me softly laughing, and at some point I reach for the blanket to cover us both.

It takes John a long time to calm down again. “Sorry,” he sniffs after a while, “I don't know what ...”

“Hush,” I interrupt him (softly). I can feel his body relaxing against mine. He will fall asleep soon. I start stroking his face, knowing it will relax him even more.

“I missed you,” he mumbles drowsily.

He is sound asleep before I can tell him that he means the world to me. But it is quite all right. I have the rest of our life to tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have probably realised that there is only one more chapter to come, some Kind of fluffy epilogue.
> 
> Big thanks to very patient betas who didn't even mind me losing their files and hence having to correct the chapter once more.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long time you had to wait. Here it is, the final chapter.

There are still two graves without names on them, and now that we are no longer busy with healing, I commit myself to them completely.

Well, as completely as you can as a family father with a healthy sex life and a toddler that somehow learnt how to walk overnight and parents that demand your attention. Which means that it takes quite a lot of time to find out who is resting there. But that is fine, really, because what is slowing me down is enriching my life enormously.

And in the end, and with a little help from John and Mummy, it is done. All sailors are identified.

There is a celebration, of course. The mayor is there and the island's chronicler's son (who will never be called “the island’s chronicler” because he cannot fill his father's shoes but is the only one on Amrum who does not know that) and the local press (which also means the chronicler's son) and the chronicler's son's photographer with his girlfriend and some tourists. Students from the island's primary school do something that loosely resembles making music.

And there is my family of course.

Emmi lightens up the mood by squealing at all the wrong moments and Daddy slips away unnoticed only to tell the chronicler's son about little Sherlock's pirate adventures. Incredible how much you can loathe the ones you love.

There also are some relatives of the identified sailors. Naturally there is lots of weeping and hugging and being moved. I ignore the weeping and endure the hugging but cannot help being moved myself. They are happy because of something I've done.

John is standing right by my side the whole evening (which enables Emmi on his arm to drool over my shirt because she is teething). The chronicler's son's photographer makes a wonderful shot of the three of us in which it is plain to see how happy we are (despite the drool on my shirt) because we are really happy.

It has been quite a while since I caused that much publicity. And only now do I realize how much I missed it.

“I think it is time to go home,” I tell John that night when our bodies are pressed closely together.

He is quiet for a while. Then he whispers, “Do you know what date it is today?”

Of course not. Why would I?

When I don't answer, he places his hand softly on my curls. “Tomorrow is the 27th of May.”

The day of Mycroft's death.

John keeps on caressing my hair and is quiet so I can think. Somehow, I have always assumed that I would not go to Mycroft's grave because it is nothing but a storage place for his dead body and has nothing to do with what was lost the day Mary killed him. I try to calculate if I could make it to London in time. Maybe if I take the ferry to Sylt and then hire a plane …

But what then? Have the plane take me to London so I cannot go to the graveyard? That sounds ridiculous, even to my ears. But not going to the graveyard while still on Amrum does not make any sense. It would be as ineffective as being petulant while temporarily mute. Nobody will notice. I don't know what to do.

John keeps stroking my hair while I tell him. Then he thinks. Then he strokes my cheek. “Why don't you visit Baker Street in your mind palace tomorrow?” he suggests finally. “That way, Inner Mycroft will see that you are not visiting his grave at all.”

No wonder I love him that much.

On the next morning, I leave before Emmi wakes up. It is a sunny day and it will surely be warm later on but right now the air is still cold. The soft morning sunlight falls onto the sea, the dunes look surreal in the misty morning glow. The sky is more yellow and red than blue, and one star is still to be seen.

I sit down on my favourite bench, the one where I opened up the letters to our older selves months ago. It seems like a lifetime ago. I close my eyes, tune out the waves and the birds and will up the sound of London early morning traffic, muffled by the old walls of Baker Street.

When I open my eyes inside my mind palace, I am still sitting on that bench on Amrum. Before me on the table, there is a steaming mug filled with hot chocolate. Inner Mycroft is sitting on the other side, watching me with interest.

“My, my,” he says, “am I really gone for a year now? Time flies when you are dead!”

I want to answer something clever but nothing comes to my mind. Instead, I feel a lump in my throat forming. I have to swallow down a tear.

He looks at me, then sips his chocolate. “Drink, or it will cool down too much.”

As a child, I have always made a fuss over drinking the chocolate at exactly the right moment, not too hot and not too cold. Of course he remembers. Only now do I realize that my feet are bare.

The drink tastes sweet and rich. I need a while before I can look at Inner Mycroft again. “I miss you,” I say then, watching the low waves instead of him. There is so much more I should possibly say but nothing else is equally important.

“Have you forgiven yourself?” he wants to know. No, he does not want to know. He knows. He wants me to say it loud.

“What happened will stay with me until I die,” I repeat after a while, “but yes, I have forgiven myself.”

He smiles. “I know,” he informs me, with the trace of an arrogant smile on his lips. Funny how much I love him like that.

The beach in front of me becomes translucent for a moment. The idea of Baker Street can be guessed but remains vague and unreal.

“It is time to go home, don't you think?” he almost whispers.

Yes. It is time to go home.

***

In the end, it takes us nearly a week to prepare for the journey home. It is kind of silly, Daddy remarks more than once (twenty-six times actually), to leave now that summer is almost there but there is no seriousness in his words. He is right, nevertheless.

“We will come back”, John tells me when we are hugging in the garden just before we have to leave for the ferry.

We went on what John called a goodbye stroll the day before, with Emmi in her pushing chair, visiting some places he wants to keep in his memory.

The graveyard of the homeless has got its new sign just the other day. “Graveyard of the Resting Souls” it is called now. There is a little plate explaining about me and what I did.

We went to the Vogelkoje and to the bench where John was sitting after not boarding the ferry. At the plate that shows you in which direction London lies, John kissed me, long and wet. We even stopped for a last glass of whisky at the Blaue Maus while Emmi was sleeping in her pushing chair.

When we are on the ferry, I delete how we got there. My final memory of Amrum will be John and Emmi and me in the garden of our old house, hugging.

***

And then suddenly we are really standing in front of 221b.

It feels strange, familiar and new at the same time. Mrs Hudson has had the door painted three months ago in the same colour it was before, and Speedy's has reacted to the slight decrease in income by an increase of annoyingly red adverts.

There is traffic noise and the cab is taking my parents away and people nearly walking into us and Emmi watching the pigeons with interest and the memory of “He’s straightened the knocker.” and “Ah, Mr Holmes.” “Sherlock, please.” and we really should go inside now.

John takes the lead, Emmi on his arms. He opens the door and waits for me to go in. “I always go in after you,” he says quietly.

“Only to take a close look at my arse,” I joke.

“Aaaasss”, Emi answers.

“Exactly,” John answers too.

I smile and cross the threshold. Soon Mrs Hudson will shower us with care before we will be alone on the stairs. We will go upstairs and be welcomed by the smell of home. We will need time to erase the painful memories of giving up and smashing violins and heartbreak. It will take a while but in the end we will replace them with memories of the first client we will accept again and sex on the kitchen table for the first time and scaring Emmi's first boyfriend away by deducing he smoked weed just an hour ago.

But that will happen later. Maybe not exactly like that.

Now, I take one step, and then another, and then I am inside. John follows me, as he always does.

We made it home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everybody who read, commented, gave kudos, or just enjoyed reading Not Broken. 
> 
> Most of all I want to thank the best betas in the world. This would not be the same without you. <3


End file.
